


No End and No Forgiveness

by chss



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dark Jonerys, Dorne, Fire and Blood, Iron Islands (Westeros), Multi, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resurrection, Targaryen Incest, Targaryen Restoration, and basically she tortures him (psychologically) until there's none of him left, and his guilt, and it's time for her to use him, as are most of the characters, but also jon doesn't actually show up until halfway through and it's not just about them, dany's pretty evil in this, fuck D&D, fuck season 8, fuck the north, it's like a slow burn but for violence and revenge, it's not a happy story, like really dark and not happy, post-season 8, she doesn't forgive him, things do take a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-05-07 04:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 49
Words: 104,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19201768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chss/pseuds/chss
Summary: The Three-Eyed Raven rules in King's Landing; a boy who never wanted to be king, aided by largely untested advisors. Dorne and the Iron Islands do not see why they should remain under his rule. The North is experiencing the realities of independence as winter takes its hold. In the east, the Lord of Light decides that Daenerys Targaryen's story is far from over.Or: An exploration of the consequences of the bizarre end of S8.





	1. Yara I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning: Needless so say, I hated the way the show ended. The premise of this story is to spitefully take the ending as a given, though, and then move on from there. This means that characters are consistent with what they were at the end of season 8, so Daenerys is the kind of person who would burn King's Landing to the ground for no clear reason, while Jon is... nothing, pretty much. Someone who doesn't have clear motivations, doesn't really seem to have agency, and mostly just reacts to others' actions. Tyrion is an idiot, and Sansa doesn't understand that treating other people with at least feigned kindness leads to better results than being rude and distant.
> 
> I don't think that these are the "real" characters; they obviously have nothing to do with their true selves in the books or even just earlier parts of the show. The point of the story is to look into how the supposed resolution at the end of the show could easily fall apart.

After the Great Council, or whatever _that_ had been, Yara was more than ready to leave the smouldering hellhole they called King's Landing and everything that had transpired in it. _All Hail Bran the Broken_. The words had tasted like bile in her mouth.

She was the first to leave the Dragonpit, taking long strides towards the harbour, her uncle Rodrick in tow. Neither of them spoke; there were no words for what had just happened. In her head, however, Yara was already formulating the speech she'd give when they got back to the Iron Islands. _Bran the Broken_. The ironborn would never accept this.

She heard steps behind her, and not just Rodrick's, but she didn't bother to check who was following them. If they wanted to talk to her, they would have to speak up.

“Your Grace.” There. She slowed her steps before finally coming to a halt, turning around. She was facing Anders Yronwood, Prince of Dorne. “I'm not a queen.”

He shrugged. “You could be. _Should_ be. Was that not the agreement you had come to with Queen Daenerys?”

Rodrick shot her a nervous glance, probably expecting that this was some kind of trap, a test of loyalty from the new king. Yara didn't want to discount the possibility, but she didn't think it likely. “Queen Daenerys is dead”, she said, “and now there is a wholly new Crown. Why are you so concerned with the Iron Islands' independence?”

Not that she really needed to ask. Their interests were aligned, and she wasn't surprised that he had approached her, nor was she as he now asked if she would join him for a walk. Yara dismissed Rodrick, who did not seem happy with the situation, and followed the prince along the harbour.

“There's nothing in the world more powerful than a good story”, he mused, sounding vaguely disdainful. “Such pretty words.”

“Perhaps Tyrion should try telling a story to my axe”, she said, and Yronwood nodded. “So I was right in assuming that you are as unhappy with this farce as I am?”

Yara snorted. “Unhappy doesn't cover it. I can't say I understand why that traitor got to decide the future of the Seven Kingdoms. Or six, rather.”

The prince halted and looked straight at her. “And I do not understand why the Starks had three votes in this Council. Nor why the North should be independent, but not Dorne and the Iron Islands.”

As she'd thought: aligned interests. Yara arched a brow. “And yet you didn't say anything.”

“Neither did you.” They both knew where this was going. “It seemed more prudent to keep quiet for now and take the necessary steps later”, he said. “If the Iron Islands would like to join Dorne in taking these steps, we would welcome your support.”

Yara had decided that the Iron Islands wouldn't stand for this as soon as it had become clear that Jon Snow was not going to die. She'd been confident enough that this strange new system would tear itself apart sooner rather than later, and that she would be queen again before long.

Dorne was the only Kingdom left that remained untouched by war. The Dornish had no interest in her islands; they were too far away, and even the ironborn raiders had rarely made it all the way down there. Dorne was one of the few parts of Westeros the Iron Islands had barely any links to – which, in their case, meant that the Dornish did not hate them quite as much as the rest. “So what do you want, then?”, she asked the prince. “Independence? Just that?”

His dark eyes looked over the harbour. “Independence, yes”, he said. “But not _just_ that. We had sworn ourselves to the queen, as had you. As we had sworn ourselves to every other Targaryen since Maron Martell wed another Daenerys.” He met her eyes, and even though she knew they weren't related, he reminded her quite a bit of Ellaria Sand in this moment. “We want vengeance. It is as you said – Daenerys freed us from a tyrant. This was yet another treason, and it cannot go unpunished.”

Yara could get behind that. She stretched out her arm and he took it, shaking hands like she had once had with Daenerys, a lifetime ago in Meereen. “Then we have an agreement”, she said. With Dorne by her side, this would be easier than she had anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that Anders Yronwood would be the Unnamed Prince of Dorne since he seemed like the most likely candidate. I get that according to the books, he's a) blond and b) not necessarily in favour of women rulers, but I'm just going with this instead. The Yronwoods in general are essentially OCs in this story, which I think is alright as they don't exist in the show universe at all.


	2. Grey Worm I

From the stern of the first ship, Grey Worm surveyed their fleet. The ships had been cobbled together from a number of merchants, paid for by the new Crown.

The Westerosi had been all too happy to be rid of the Unsullied. He was sure they feared them because they were some of the last soldiers left in the realm, yes, but he had always been aware that it had been more than that. The Unsullied had been stolen as boys from a variety of places in Essos – and that was precisely the problem. They might all look different, but none of them looked like Westerosi. He had wondered to himself if these people could even tell the difference between Lhazareen and Ghiscari, Dothraki and Ibbenese. They most likely didn't care.

“Ser!”, the ship's captain shouted, swiftly walking towards him, and Grey Worm had to admit to himself that the Westerosi also had their differences. This was a small Dornishman, darker than most he'd seen in the West. He didn't bother to tell the captain that he was not a ser; he had already tried and it hadn't stuck.

“Ser”, he repeated, having now reached him. “Ser, if you don't mind me asking – how long exactly were you planning on staying on Naath?”

It took Grey Worm a second to process this. The Common Tongue had more different accents than he had anticipated, and he found that it could be difficult to understand some people, such as the Dornish or the Northerners, and commoners in general. His teachers, after all, had spoken what had to be the most sophisticated version of the language.

“We stay there”, he said. “We are going to protect the Naathi.” That was the least he could do for her now; the only thing that was left.

The captain's eyes widened. “But, ser”, he plead. “Have you not heard of butterfly fever? All foreigners fall to it if they're on Naath for too long. It is a terrible death, and surely not one fit for soldiers like you.”

Grey Worm was well aware of the sickness. He didn't care; his fear had died with Missandei, just as it had been born with her. His brothers would be given a choice as soon as they reached the island; their passage had been paid for quite generously and it would take them anywhere they would like.

He looked down at the captain. “You will not stay with us. You will not get sick.”

“Well, no -”, the captain began, and shook his head in despair. Then he took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and looked at Grey Worm as a whole different man. “Ser, the fever is not the only reason you should not go to Naath. There is something better.”

He didn't have a reply to that, so he let the man continue. “You – all of you – were loyal to the queen, were you not? And you still are?”

“Always.” That much he knew. “We had sworn to protect her, but we failed. Then we swore to kill those that betrayed her, and failed again.” He didn't know what the captain was getting at, but he wouldn't have his loyalty questioned. “That is why we left.”

“There was nothing you could do. Fighting the traitors would have been nothing but suicide.” Grey Worm wonders, briefly, what the Breaker of Chains would have felt if she had heard this. There had been love for her after all, even if it was just one Dornish captain. “We do not fear death”, he told the man. “We are going somewhere we can be useful.”

“Now, _exactly_.” Grey Worm could tell that he was getting to his point. “Forgive me, ser, but what use would you be in Naath, where you're like to die after a few weeks at most? I'm sure the Naathi would appreciate your protection. They're a welcoming people, and they once welcomed my own, the Rhoynar. But even their hospitality could not save us from the fever, and Queen Nymeria took us to Dorne instead.” The captain looked at him imploringly. “If you want to be useful, if you want to avenge your queen, then come to Dorne.” He nodded towards the coastline still visible to their West. “It's not a long journey to Yronwood, and Prince Anders would be overjoyed if he could count on you and your men.”

Grey Worm blinked. “I need to think.” The captain nodded, briefly (and carefully) pat his shoulder, and then he was on his way across the deck, shouting orders.

Looking back towards the coast of Westeros, he frowned. Decisions. He had been trained as an unquestioning slave for most of his life, and making decisions was not something he was accustomed to. On the battlefield, yes – he was a commander, after all. But decisions for himself, about the direction of his life? That was entirely different.

The first decision Grey Worm could remember ever making was the one to stay with the Mother of Dragons, that fateful day when she had burned the Good Masters of Astapor. This had been aided by circumstance – there had been no-where else to go, and almost all of his brothers had stayed as well. But there had been more to it. The fact that she had given them a choice had made following her so attractive.

Then, there had been other decisions, though not many. Speaking to Missandei, telling her about his feelings... That had hardly been a choice, in the end; he thought he'd die if he didn't, that his love for her would swallow him if he did not share it.

Both of those decisions had been good ones, he knew, despite the fact that they had ended in this. Even if he couldn't protect them then, he did believe that he had aided both his queen and his love for part of their journey.

The last decision he had made was the one to go to Naath. It had been based on pain, on longing for a future that would never exist, on the desperate attempt to protect her people like he hadn't been able to protect her. But was this a good decision, too?

Grey Worm had to admit to himself that the captain had a point. Butterfly fever would take him eventually, as it took any foreigner who stayed on the island for more than a few hours. Maybe he wouldn't fall ill immediately, maybe him and any men who chose to share his fate would be able to ward off at least one slave raid. But the terrible truth was: they probably wouldn't.

Usefulness, then. He'd always been a soldier, always served someone. First because the masters had taken everything else from him, then because he believed in his queen, then also because he wanted to protect Missandei. And now, he still wanted to avenge them, and he knew many of his men felt the same.

Dorne. Queen Daenerys had always spoken fondly of the place. It had remained loyal to her House, and her brother's wife had been a Dornish princess, brutally murdered by the Lannisters, along with her children. (He thinks of Tyrion for a second, and realises that maybe, they should've seen it coming.)

If Dorne was truly an option, if its prince really wanted vengeance, then yes, Grey Worm would take it. But he would need to speak to his brothers. He would have to give each of them a choice.


	3. Davos I | Qoro

Davos I

What remained of the Great Hall of the Red Keep was quite empty; only filled with a smattering of the usual lords and ladies. The last time Davos had been here, when Robert was still king and and Stannis was master of ships, it had been filled to the brim with the nobility of Westeros, all there for Joffrey's name day turney.

Then again, it had also had intact walls, and the Iron Throne. Now, despite the renovations, not all the gaps in the wall had been filled, and the chilly air of the southern winter seemed to be troubling some of the ladies in their fine silk gowns. Where the Iron Throne had once stood was now King Bran on his wooden wheelchair.

The king was here to fill the missing positions on his small council. He did so in his usual dispassionate way, and Davos hoped that the nobles would soon grow used to it. His lack of charisma had been Stannis' biggest obstacle, Davos had realised when serving Jon Snow. King Jon. Aegon. Whichever.

Despite Tyrion's best efforts, King Bran had not shown a large amount of interest in selecting the candidates, and had ultimately signed off on two of the council's recommendations without any discussion. Lord Yohn Royce knelt before the king and became master of war to have a representative of the Vale on the council, something that Tyrion thought would also please the Queen in the North. The Hand of the King had encouraged Dorne to send a master of whisperers – after all, if there was anyone who would need to be placated with an important position, it was them, and Tyrion had remarked that it did not truly matter who did the job, considering that the king was all-knowing. And so, the role went to Ser Ryon Allyrion, good-son to the Prince of Dorne and heir to Godsgrace.

The king had only been involved in choosing one of the remaining council members: the master of laws. Tyrion had thought it wise to pick someone from the Riverlands; a second or third son of an important house to lead the gold cloaks. Davos had thought that it might be better to pick someone from King's Landing for the job of running the city, but he had been overruled. A Blackwood or a Bracken, Tyrion had insisted, apparently a difficult decision with its own implications.

Not so for the king. “Blackwood”, had been his immediate answer. Tyrion thought that this was likely because the Blackwoods followed the old gods that the king had such an affinity for, and Davos was inclined to agree. With this, the matter was settled, and a boy named Ser Edmund Blackwood became master of laws. Davos still wasn't quite sure how a young lad from the Riverlands could control King's Landing, but then again, the king knew everything and was probably right.

After the appointments were made, the king briefly spoke to Ser Ryon before being rolled out of the Great Hall by Podrick. Davos joined the new master of whisperers and the Hand of the King, standing where the throne had been.

“So, Ser Ryon”, Tyrion said, smiling up at the Dornishman, who was exceptionally tall by any standard. “I take it you have already received your most important assignment?”

The knight nodded thoughtfully. Davos remembered Stannis' disdain for the Dornish very well, but the man had not been right about everything. “I am to find a dragon across the Narrow Sea”, Ser Ryon said, not sounding too sure of himself. Then he looked around. “I assume that I can speak of this openly, my lords.”

“Oh, don't worry”, Davos said. “Everyone in Westeros wants to know where that beast is. I wouldn't be surprised if it came back one day to finish the job.” He squinted up at the gaps in the Red Keep's walls.

“Well, not if we find it first.” Tyrion said, patting Ser Ryon's elbow. “Truly a great responsibility, ser. I hope for your sake that you won't be sent to kill it once you've found it.”

The Dornishman grimaced. “I believe this would fall outside my obligations.” He craned his neck at the group chatting next to them, raising his voice. “How do you feel about dragon-slaying, Lord Royce? Truly a task for the master of war.”

Leaving them to their uncomfortable jests, Davos excused himself to head to the docks. He had work to do, and he had a hard time finding humour in the situation. The king was certainly trying to find Drogon, and that was important – while it was possible that the beast would decide to live out its days in the ruins of old Valyria, no-one could be sure that it wouldn't return eventually. No-one knew anything about dragons, really, even though Grand Maester Tarly had sent word to the archmaesters in the Citadel to comb their tomes for any information they could find.

Nevertheless, it was precisely this fixation on the dragon that worried Davos. The king did not appear interested in much else, especially not in the day-to-day process of ruling a kingdom. What was worse, Davos had his doubts about the small council itself. He had experience in managing Stannis' fleet, and thus didn't believe himself to be an incapable master of ships, especially after having assisted Stannis while he was filling the same role. Tyrion had been Hand of the King in King's Landing before, and that had gone so well that it had cost Davos his sons when they had attacked the city. Ser Brienne was a brilliant fighter and possibly the most honourable person he'd ever met; a wise choice for Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

But Samwell Tarly, as good of a man as he might be, had never completed his training as a maester. Davos didn't imagine that the Citadel took kindly to his appointment. Bronn – Lord Bronn, rather – had no reason to be master of coin (or Lord of Highgarden), except that he had apparently blackmailed Tyrion in some form. Presently, he seemed to be uniquely focused on rebuilding the brothels. About the new appointments Davos wasn't sure, though he supposed that the master of whisperers, at least, didn't matter.

He sighed, the countless steps and passages of the Red Keep taking a toll on his old bones. It was still a long way to the docks, but at the very least new materials had arrived today, and the rebuilding of the royal fleet could begin in earnest. He should truly put his worries to rest and focus on the task ahead. He might not understand this new king of his, but the boy – the man – did possess all knowledge ever held by mankind, and seemed to receive an occasional glimpse of the future as well. It was just not possible that he didn't know what he was doing.

 

Qoro

Something was different today.

He had spent the last hour at least trying to put his finger on what it was, but he kept coming up short. The hills looked the same as they did every day. The grass felt the same under his feet, was trampled the same way by the goats. The air smelled the same; salt from the sea in one breeze, the stink of the city with the next. The air wasn't any hotter or colder than on most days. If he looked west, he could see Volantis in the distance. Tiny people moving about, smoke rising from its fires, the Black Walls shining as they did on any other day.

And yet, the goats were acting strange. Twice already one had tried to run off, and Qoro couldn't afford that. His master would be furious, the punishment surely painful. He was interested in keeping all the eight fingers he had left.

But it was getting worse. As he passed hours herding them over the hills, his master's goats grew ever more restless. By the time it was getting dark and he decided to rest for the night, he made sure that their pen was secure, hammered in a few additional logs. The state they were in, all of them would run off before he woke up at dawn.

With that worrying thought on his mind, Qoro fell into a restless sleep. It couldn't have been much later when he woke up again, disrupted by the ever-louder braying around him.

“Will you shut up and calm down?”, he shouted at the goats. They were furiously attempting to escape their pen, acting in a way he'd never seen. _What could be disturbing them so?_ , Qoro thought. Then he heard the flap of wings. Though how he immediately knew what it was, he wasn't sure; he had never heard _this_ sound before.

Qoro looked up, and he knew. No-one had ever described a dragon to him, but it couldn't be anything else. In the darkness, it was almost difficult to make out; an enormous black shape moving through the sky. It seemed to be holding something in its – claws? Talons? Whatever they were called, he couldn't make out what it was.

He knew he should've been afraid, but as the dragon glid through the sky above him, all Qoro could feel was wonder. That, and something else, something slaves didn't feel very often: hope.

 _This must be her_. She was all the red priests were talking about lately. The Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, Mhysa who would deliver them from slavery. Who else?

The dragon disappeared in the hills, and Qoro became aware of his heartbeat, loud and almost painful. He sat down on the straw he'd slept on and tried to calm himself. Could this truly be it? Had the Lord of Light heard their prayers? With how many people were saying them in and around Volantis, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised.

It took him a long time until he was calm enough to return to sleep, but at least his goats were beginning to quiet. When sleep finally came, it did not last long.

 

Qoro woke at dawn, as he did every day, and pulled a piece of stale bread out of his bag. Chewing on it, he contemplated the events of the night. In the light of day, it seemed increasingly likely that it had just been a dream. A sweet dream, sure, but not real. A dragon bringing the Breaker of Chains... No, it couldn't be. Nothing would change, and he would still have his master's goats to take care of.

A short time later, Qoro was once again leading them through the hills. Their restlessness hadn't entirely left them yet; the only reason for him to think that maybe, he had actually seen what he believed to have seen.

This suspicion grew once he made it to the top of a hill and saw a small procession of red priests. Their robes made them appear to be of a high rank within the priesthood. They also seemed to be walking in the direction the dragon had flown last night. Their chanting reminded them of his visits to the small temple nearby – it was there, yes, but high-ranking priests were a rare sight in the hillside.

Perhaps he hadn't dreamed it, then. Perhaps she was really here.

His master's goats surrounding him, Qoro decided that if the Breaker of Chains had truly come to Volantis, he would find out soon enough. Until then, he'd still have a long way to walk.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God did I hate that small council scene at the end. I get that they just wanted to shove in characters we knew, but come on. Bronn as master of coin? A few seasons ago he didn't know what a loan was. I also don't entirely get why Bronn could get away with all his blackmail - like sure he's good at fighting, but he's still just one guy. Should be easy enough to protect Tyrion from, instead of giving him Highgarden. I guess the old lords of the Reach are probably not happy about that, at all.  
> And then Bran shows up, only cares about Drogon, and leaves again without any interest in talking about the rebuilding of King's Landing. Which is the thing that he, as a ruler, should care about.  
> It's just such a mess.


	4. Wolkan I

The cold wind felt like a slap to the face, and Wolkan knew that he'd be covered in snow by the time he made it into the Great Keep. It was so cold that they had had to put up a brazier in the rookery to keep the ravens from freezing (and complaining), and this at a time when they were essentially useless anyway. He had sent a few birds out as the queen had commanded, but Maester Wolkan didn't have much hope that the scrolls would reach their destination. Winter was well and truly here, and the heart of the North was isolated.

To make matters worse, Winterfell was still in ruins. The efforts to rebuild the castle had come to a halt for the time being; the weather conditions didn't permit for it. Most of the nobles had been able to return home after the queen's coronation and the appointments of new lords, at least, and now Winterfell's diminished household was able to fit into the inner keep.

Wolkan made his way through the heavy doors and felt his shoulders relax as soon as he stepped into the relative warmth. The hot springs below were still able to provide heat for the innermost part of the castle, as it had survived the battles relatively unscathed.

As expected, Maester Wolkan found Queen Sansa in her solar, sitting around a table with her new household: Edwin Snow, a Glover bastard and Winterfell's master-at-arms; the steward Alard Marsh; and Ser Hallis Mollen, captain of the castle guard.

“Any news, maester?”, the queen asked as soon as he stepped into the room. As always, Wolkan had to sigh and shake his head. “No, Your Grace”, he said apologetically. She had sent multiple scrolls south to ask for aid from her brother, others to the Citadel for advice for rebuilding the Wall. He really wished she would stop asking.

The queen's face didn't betray her displeasure, but her tone did. “Could we send riders down to Riverrun? Or perhaps to White Harbor? Someone needs to speak sense to my uncle.”

Since the North had gained its independence once and for all, no more provisions had found their way north of the Neck. The queen was quite convinced that this was Edmure Tully's doing, and Wolkan knew that something must've happened in King's Landing that had caused a rift between the Lord of Riverrun and his niece.

“They would be slow, Your Grace, and they'd face harsh conditions”, Marsh said. “But it might be our best bet.”

“Then see it done – more than one man each. I will write the letters tonight.” The queen sighed. “One could expect that my brother would know of our predicament.”

The men agreed. It did strike Wolkan as strange that the King of the Six Kingdoms, omniscient as he was, would not have taken steps to help his homeland. He suspected that they had had a similar falling-out as Sansa and Lord Edmure. “Maybe he will, Your Grace”, Snow said. “We still have a year, maybe two if the weather turns milder.” That much was true; Winterfell would be able to sustain itself for a good while longer, and they'd even be able to feed the handful of smallfolk in Wintertown. But the last time Wolkan had heard from the Citadel, they had predicted the longest Winter in recent memory; five years or more.

“Well, at the very least the cold will presumably help us in rebuilding the Wall.” The queen glanced out the window, or tried to – it was really too fogged up to see outside. “That should keep the Night's Watch occupied, and mayhaps it will be done before spring comes and the wildlings come out of their huts.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace”, Mollen began, and Wolkan already knew where this was going. They had had this discussion countless times, much to his annoyance. “I still don't believe that this is necessary. Have we not made peace with the wildlings? The army of the dead is gone; they will be happy to stay beyond the Wall.”

“For now”, the queen countered. “But eventually they will return to their old ways, and the raids will begin once more.” She shook her head. “I will not change my mind on this.” Then she looked at Wolkan. “Maester, did you happen to see any of the young lords make their preparations to leave when you were outside?”

Snow snorted, and Wolkan had to tell her that he didn't. Another sigh. “I do believe they are running out of excuses. I am not sure how many more times I can politely tell them that the weather won't be getting any better in the next months.”

“There's two ways to get rid of them, Your Grace”, Mollen offered. “If you'd like, I can arrange for them to accidentally get trapped outside overnight. It's not a bad death.” They all knew he wasn't being serious, but the queen did look pensive for a second. “It's either that, or -”

“Or I marry one of them, yes”, she said. “I am aware.”

Even after most of the lords had said their goodbyes, a few houses had managed to conveniently let their young heirs stay behind at Winterfell, and now they could claim that the weather didn't allow for them to depart. Four of Queen Sansa's suitors were still in the castle. She was obviously not pleased with this, and Wolkan wasn't surprised; they truly were an annoying bunch.

“Marsh, find me a few riders”, she said. “Maester, we need to have a word in private.”

Understanding that they were dismissed, the others left. The queen called in a maid and asked for two cups of warmed wine. Wolkan did not quite know what to expect.

Sitting before him and taking great care in straightening her skirts, they queen looked uncharacteristically uncertain. She cleared her throat and looked towards the door without a word, and Wolkan began to grow curious. Luckily, the wine was before them quickly. “Now”, she said as soon as the maid left, and took a large sip. “This concerns a rather delicate matter.”

That much he could've guessed. “It is about your suitors, Your Grace?”

“In a way.” She looked down into her cup. “Maester Wolkan, you were here when I was married to Ramsay. You must know that he...” She trailed off.

 _That he took you every night, yes_. He had served the Boltons for a long time, and Wolkan hadn't been a stranger to the constant screaming and weeping you could hear in the Dreadfort. He had known the girl's fate as soon as he'd heard of the marriage. Still, her screams had been particularly difficult to ignore.

He just nodded, wondering where this was going. After her last experience, he could imagine that she wouldn't want another man in her bed. Perhaps she had lasting injuries?

“Ramsay really made every effort to get me with child.” She had finally found a polite way to put it. “For months and months, every single night. And yet, he didn't succeed. To be honest, maester, I am concerned I might be barren.”

 _Oh_. “Well, Your Grace -”, he began, and she cut him off. She shouldn't have, really, considering that he had good news for her. “You must understand that this would have terrible implications”, she said, visibly concerned. “With my sister gone to gods-know-where and Bran bound to his chair, I am the last Stark. If I cannot have children, an eight thousand year-old line ends with me. Not to speak of the probable war a succession crisis would lead to.”

Of course. Contrary to the southern kingdoms, the North hadn't opted for an elective monarchy. Wolkan had thought that she would be against the idea of marrying at all, but he hadn't considered that this would be her problem. After all: “Your Grace, it is of course _possible_ that you are barren. But am I right that you have never shared the bed of anyone except for Lord B-”, he stopped himself. Old habits died hard. “Except for Ramsay Snow?”

She took another deep sip, clearly very uncomfortable. Wolkan had to admit to himself that seeing her a bit less self-assured wasn't entirely unpleasant. “I have not, no.”

“Well then.” She would like this. “In the time I served the Boltons, Ramsay bedded many women, and raped many others.” The queen's face looked pained. “And yet, I was never asked to supply anyone with moon tea, and I never saw any of them pregnant.”

Sansa blinked at him. “Do you mean to suggest that Ramsay was infertile?”  
“I did have that suspicion”, he confirmed. “What is more, some in the Citadel believe that stress-inducing surroundings make it more difficult for women to conceive.” He thought back to the screams he'd hear at night, and the pale, frail creature that she'd been. “I believe that your marriage to Ramsay counted as stress-inducing.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Indeed.” Sansa leaned back into her chair. “Then – do you think I would be able to have children with another man, maester?”

How would he know? “It is likely”, he just said. “You are young and healthy, and your mother had five children. There are a few examinations I could perform, but ultimately you won't know until...” Now, how to phrase this?

“Until I find a new husband”, she said, thankfully. The queen swirled her wine around in her cup, and Wolkan realised that he'd forgotten to drink his. “Whoever I choose, he likely won't be as bad as Ramsay”, she mused, then looked at him. “I thank you for your counsel, maester. You've soothed my worries more than I had anticipated.”

He stood, bowed, and took his leave. One worry, yes. If that had been the only problem, Wolkan would've considered Queen Sansa's reign secure.

But then there was the winter. And the general destruction of the North and Winterfell in particular, not to speak of the depopulation in the wake of the wars. That would probably be a mercy once their food stores ran low, but if they did make it until spring, it would mean fewer peasants to tax.

Maester Wolkan didn't care who she'd marry in the end, and considering that she would likely outlive him if they didn't starve this winter, he didn't care about the succession either. The starving, though, that was the sticking point.

If the winter would truly be long, it was far from unlikely. Not for the first time, Wolkan wished that the Citadel had sent him somewhere south.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess show!Wolkan, as much as he got any characterisation at all, seemed like a pretty nice guy. I just gave him a constant level of exasperation and a mild distaste for everyone because he did serve the Boltons for a while, and that must leave at least some kind of mark. Also because it adds some flavour.  
> Now to complain about S8 once more: The show kept telling us that Sansa is some kind of political genius. Then she humiliates Edmure Tully in front of all the highest nobility of Westeros, right before declaring Northern independence. Edmure, who's as proud as he's insecure. Edmure, who's both her uncle and the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands; aka the region closest to the North, and thus their most obvious and immediate trading partner.  
> … I'm not sure if that was a great move.
> 
> (I love Sansa in the books. I'm just mad at what the show turned her into.)


	5. Anders I | Yara II

Anders I

Under the cover of a cloudy night, the ships docking at the mouth of the Blueblood were difficult to see – not that there was anyone around who wasn't meant to see them. The arrival of the Unsullied was witnessed only the Prince of Dorne, his heir, the ship's crewmen – and the four thousand Yronwood soldiers that were to replace the former slaves. Soon, the fleet would sail closely past Sunspear, where any possible spies could witness that the Unsullied were leaving Westeros. Once at a safe distance, the fleet would split, and the ships could return to Dorne one by one.

“I do not mean to question you, Father”, Ynys said from under her hood, just before doing exactly that. “But how do you mean to hide all these foreign men? Sooner or later, someone will notice.”

“They will be disguised in our lands – as farmhands, as workers, or soldiers in Yronwood”, he explained. “I am sure that the smallfolk will take note, but they are unlikely to run to King's Landing with that information.”

Ynys was not a child anymore. She was a woman grown, a mother of two – but Anders hadn't raised her as his heir; that role had been meant to be filled by her older brother Cletus, before he had died on an ill-fated journey to Essos. Ynys wasn't used to his way of thinking, but now she would have to learn. Since the Martells had all perished and he had taken control of Dorne, she would one day rule this land. She would inherit Sunspear, while his younger daughter Gwyneth would take Yronwood. Ynys's husband was heir to Godsgrace, and their sons would inherit both.

After his death, his blood would rule half of Dorne. “That may be”, Ynys said, “but is the king not meant to be all-knowing, by some strange Northern magic? If he finds out, we will all lose our heads for treason.”

They both looked on as small boats brought Unsullied off the ships, and his own soldiers onto them. “Perhaps he is all-knowing”, Anders admitted. “Perhaps not. That is why I have sent your husband to be master of whisperers – to find out.”

He could hear her sigh. “I do hope that this will not cause Ryon's death. My sons should not be raised without their father.”

There, Anders could agree. But he trusted his good-son well enough, and the appointment as master of whisperers was perfect. If the usurper king truly was omniscient, they would all be likely to die soon. If not, however, then Ser Ryon was well-placed to report to Dorne, while feeding false information to King's Landing.

He made to approach the ships, followed by Ynys. “And you trust the ironborn?”, she asked.

Despite her constant questioning of his decisions, Anders was glad that she was able to consider many angles to their strategy. “Of course not”, he said. “But I do believe that we share the same interests, and that Queen Yara knows that. Still, I will send your sister to the Iron Islands to make sure.”

Ynys stopped abruptly. “You are sending Gwyn?”, she asked, aghast. “That just means giving them a hostage.”

Anders smiled, and continued walking. His daughter followed after a moment. “Gwyneth will be an honoured guest coming with a large cargo of wood for shipbuilding, and she will be fine. They know that Dorne is stronger than them for now. Besides”, he glanced back at Ynys, “I do believe that her and Queen Yara will get along quite well.”

He presumed that she caught his meaning. “You are so certain of your plan that you are willing to risk your good-son and your daughter?”

Anders nodded. “I am. Now, let us greet these Unsullied.”

They had reached the shore just as the first men were leaving the boats. The one they called Grey Worm was just climbing on land, and after the Dragonpit meeting, Anders assumed that he was their leader. “Commander”, he greeted him.

Grey Worm stood to attention. “Prince”, he said, then glanced at Ynys, who removed her hood. She truly had his look; dark hair and hazel eyes. “My daughter and heir, the Princess Ynys”, Anders explained, and Grey Worm gave a slight bow before turning back to him. “The captain said you plan to hide us?”

“Until it is time to strike, yes.” He was not quite sure of what to expect from the Unsullied, but he knew that they were some of the most capable soldiers in the world, and fiercely loyal to Queen Daenerys. “You will all be housed in and around our ancestral home, Yronwood. Of course, we will provide you with ample opportunity to train, and would appreciate it if you would teach some of our own soldiers. I was also hoping that when the time comes, you yourself would sit on my war council. I understand that you did so for the queen.”

“I did.” The man looked as grim as he had that day in the Dragonpit. “I know how the traitors think.”

That was precisely what Anders had meant. Good. He clasped the Unsullied's soldier. “We will make the traitors pay”, he promised. “The Imp, surely, and we will even find a way to get Jon Snow.” That part would not be easy, but if he wanted to tell his people that their queen had been avenged, then her murderer certainly had to die. “In the meantime, Dorne welcomes you, and will continue to do so should you wish to stay when all is done. I trust that you are used to the desert.”

 

Yara II

The atmosphere in Pyke's Great Hall was raucous, and Yara wasn't surprised. She had just told the lords and captains of the Iron Islands what had transpired in the Dragonpit and now they needed to vent their anger – after all, she hadn't got to her meeting with Prince Anders yet.

“When you took the Islands back from Euron, we made you our queen”, Dunstan Drumm shouted from one of the benches beneath her. “You said that we'd fight the greenlanders together with the Dragon Queen, and then she'd leave us alone. Now you've come back to tell us we're meant to kneel to a cripple on the Iron Throne?”

More shouts erupted. “Not even his sister will kneel to him!”, Gorold Goodbrother thundered. “The North got its independence, and you just sat there and said nothing?”

Now, the men were almost screaming. “The Starks rule everywhere now!” This was Donnor Saltcliffe, a wooden jug of ale raised high above his head. “After everything they've done to us, you want us to grovel at their feet.” He slammed the tankard down onto the table, ale splashing everywhere. “Euron would've never done that.”

Yara had reached the end of her patience. She stood up, pulled a knife from her belt and sent it flying towards the jug, piercing its wooden walls and purposefully missing Saltcliffe's fingers by less than an inch. “Enough!”, she bellowed. The men quieted, if slowly. “Euron wanted you to kneel to that mad Lannister bitch instead, don't forget that. But it doesn't matter anyway.” She took out another knife, playing with it in one hand. “I hailed Bran Stark king, aye. And I lied.”

Now she truly had their attention again. “I don't want to kneel to a Stark any more than the rest of you, and we won't. After the meeting, I talked to the Prince of Dorne. Together with the Dornish, we will avenge Daenerys, because she was our ally. And then we'll rule ourselves again. I am still your queen.” She plunged the knife into the table.

“Why Dorne?”, Goodbrother asked, mirroring the general confusion in the Great Hall. Yara shrugged. “We have the same interests, and beyond that, they don't care what we do up here.”

“You trust them?”, Drumm shouted, and Yara let out a snort. “Of course not. But I think they'll be useful.” She held up the scroll she had received just before the meeting. “Prince Anders is sending us twenty ships full of wood so we can rebuild our fleet. And with them”, this part was quite curious, “his daughter.”

A murmur went through the Great Hall. “What for?”, Saltcliffe asked, having found a new tankard of ale. “Does he want to marry her to one of us?”

“I'd take another salt wife”, Goodbrother offered, and some men laughed. For the girl's sake, Yara hoped that the Prince of Dorne had no such intentions. “She's probably here to spy on us”, she admitted, “but she could become our hostage at any moment. I think it's meant as a gesture of trust.”

“That's all well and good”, Drumm said. Oh, was it now? Sometimes, Yara was still surprised at how quickly those men's minds could change. “But twenty ships full of wood aren't enough. After what Euron did, there's not a single tree left on these islands, and no gold to buy any either.”

As if she needed to be told. “Have any of you sailed past the shores of the North recently?” She didn't wait for an answer. “The place is frozen, even more so than usual. But they still have their woods.” It wouldn't even be an especially risky undertaking. “We won't pay the gold price for wood. We'll take it. The northerners won't leave their keeps until winter is over, and then they'll discover half the trees along their shoreline gone, with a new iron fleet in their stead.”

Now, the murmuring sounded a lot more appreciative. “And then we'll kill the cripple king and his dwarf Hand and that traitorous bastard Snow too, and we'll raid all the coasts of Westeros.” Except for Dorne, but that didn't fit the mood right now. Yara raised her axe. “We'll show the greenlanders what ironborn can do when we're not fighting each other. We'll pay the iron price for all their gold and all their women, and make their lords our thralls. And we're gonna _destroy_ the Starks.” Theon wouldn't have liked that, but Theon was dead. “One of you can take Sansa as a salt wife.”

A roar went through the crowd, and ale flew everywhere as the captains raised their jugs. “Queen Yara!”, Saltcliffe shouted, and the others soon joined in.

Satisfied, she sat back down and raised her own tankard. The support of the lords and captains had been won. Now they only needed to do the actual fighting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I've honestly got no idea how many Unsullied there are left. From Astapor, Dany got 8,000 plus any half-trained boys. Since then, many have died, and it's not like there'd be any new Unsullied. 4,000 is probably a pretty optimistic number, though it's not like the show cared much about consistency there.  
> I've also messed around with the Yronwood family tree a bit, but I doubt anyone minds. No Daemon Sand in this though; I tried to fit him in but came up short.


	6. Cella I | Kinvara

Cella I

“One piece each!”, the soldiers kept shouting. “Anyone takes two, we'll chop their hands off!”

Cella didn't believe that; she'd seen a few people take two pieces of bread. One man had stuffed at least four into his shirt. At this rate, there wouldn't be any left by the time she got to the cart.

She didn't recognise the soldiers' uniforms; they didn't look like the ones she'd seen around before the wars and the burning of King's Landing. Sometimes they shouted that they'd been sent by the master of coin from the Reach, and that he was very kind and generous to send food to the city.

She always had to laugh at that. Attempting to shove a few people out of her way and being shoved back in return, Cella wondered how this master of coin thought that a small cart of old bread would feed everyone left in the city.

She couldn't even see the cart from where she was, but suddenly, people stopped pushing. A disappointed sigh went through the crowd, and Cella's heart clenched.

They'd already run out, again. If she was lucky, she'd find a rat to eat, but even those were getting rare these days.

Making her way back across the square where the bread had been handed out, Cella almost ran into some kind of preacher. This was a common occurrence once again, as it had been after King Robert's death, when she'd still been a child. This time, they tended to preach either that the burning had been a punishment sent by the gods for Queen Cersei's sins, or a mercy that Queen Daenerys had done them to cleanse the city. According to some, King Bran had been their reward after the fire; according to others, he himself had caused it using his Northern magic.

Cella didn't care about gods or kings. She cared about food and a roof over her head, but these days, food was hard to come by and the building she slept in could collapse at any second.

She walked down towards the house she shared with a few other young women. Her parents' house had been burned, with them and her siblings in it. She hadn't known the women she was now sharing the house with before, but living together was safer. It made them harder to steal from and harder to rape.

On her way, she saw workers carrying bricks through the streets. They were restoring a few buildings here and there, though no-one was really sure how they were chosen. Some said they were the houses of people who'd paid bribes to the king or the gold cloaks. Others said they were to be brothels meant to sate the Imp Hand's lust. Others again swore that they'd be temples to the gods of the North, although someone had once told Cella that they didn't have temples in the North.

Either way, it wasn't enough. The food wasn't, and the rebuilding wasn't. She'd heard that they were trying to bring clean water into the city, but she hadn't seen any proof of that. There wasn't any work, either – except for joining the gold cloaks, helping rebuild those strangely picked buildings, or for working in the shipyard. Women couldn't do any of that.

Cella's mother had been a seamstress, she reflected as she pushed open the scrap of wood that counted as a door to her house. She had learned the trade herself, but now it was useless. No-one had any coin they could buy clothes with.

Walking into the room she usually slept in, Cella heard an unknown voice. “Well, it's either that”, said a woman, “or you girls stay here. Maybe you won't starve because this house will fall on your heads first.”

She walked in, and saw the girls she was staying with all surrounding an older woman who had her hands on her hips. “Ah, another one”, she said. “I was just telling your friends that you should come work for me.”

“As what?”, she asked, already having a suspicion. “As whores?”

“Uhuh.” The woman shrugged. “The master of coin's paying to rebuild the whorehouses. Mine's already done. I can give you food and a roof that won't crush you in your sleep.”

“I can sew”, she offered, hopeful. “I can make clothes for your girls.”

“Good.” The madam nodded. “You can do that when you're not with any men.”

Cella felt sick. She looked at the other girls, who all seemed to have the same thoughts as her.

They couldn't stay here, and they really needed food. She didn't want to be a whore, but what choice did any of them have? It was either that or almost-certain death. They could always get raped, anyway.

“Alright”, she said, and swallowed. With that, most of the others also agreed. For a second, she could imagine her parents' disappointed faces, but then her stomach growled.

If this was the only work she could get, then she'd have to take it.

 

 

Kinvara

The small temple in the hills outside Volantis was a far cry from the enormous one she was used to. Nevertheless, what had happened here had been the greatest proof of her faith that Kinvara could've ever imagined.

She'd sent back the other priests, as she didn't want to draw any attention to them being here – although she suspected that the large black dragon outside the temple might've foiled that attempt.

But the Lord of Light would take care of that, if He so chose. For now, Kinvara and the princess that was promised sat on two of the few chairs in the small inner sanctum. Daenerys was unnaturally pale, skin almost as light as her hair. Her eyes seemed set especially far in her skull, and Kinvara knew that there was a deep stab wound under her right breast, now obscured by the red robes they had given her after they'd discarded her bloody dress.

And yet, she was very much alive. Daenerys' eyes found the bloody rags in the corner, containing what had come out of her after the resurrection. “I never told him”, she said in a flat voice. “I never thought the child might live. Still, if I had, he wouldn't have killed me.” Then she looked up, clenching her hands together. “He _killed_ me. I gave him everything, I risked my children, my men, and myself for his North. And he killed me.” She stood up, paced around the room, grabbed a brazier and flung it against the wall. Coals and ash flew everywhere, and Kinvara had to suppress a cough. “He killed me!”

“And yet, you are here. Living.” Daenerys snorted and kicked against a heap of glowing coals with her boot. “And for what? It's all gone. I've lost Westeros. I've lost everyone and everything.” She glanced towards one of the small windows. “Except for Drogon”, she had to admit.

“And for yourself.” Kinvara didn't know if she should stand up, didn't know how she could calm the queen. But she did know this: “The Lord of Light has brought you back for a reason, Your Grace. I do not know what His reason this might be, but we will learn.” She then decided to rise, took a careful step towards Daenerys. “Perhaps because you are one of His own; one who raises dragons and cleanses the world with fire. Perhaps because you are the Breaker of Chains, and many of His followers are slaves. There still is a purpose for you in this world, Your Grace.”

The queen's expression was difficult to read. _“Your Grace”_ , she repeated, disdainfully. “Do not call me that. I am no longer a queen.” She began to pace once more. “I never even _was_ the rightful queen. Does he rule now? Or did my Unsullied kill him?”

Kinvara blinked, then realised who she was talking about. “From what I have heard from Westeros, it is neither. They say that Jon Snow was exiled to the Wall.”

Daenerys stopped, looked at her, and then began to laugh. It was a desperate and hysterical sound, and it shook her so much that she needed to sit down on the floor, seemingly not noticing the hot coals around her. “The”, she gasped, “the _Wall_? I'm sure he likes that, it's not even a punishment, but”, she forcefully attempted to contain her laughter, “what even is the _point_? What do they still need a Wall for?” The shook her head, wiping away her tears. “The Wall”, she repeated, still incredulous. Then she furrowed her brow, looked up once more. “But then – who rules?”

This was the bit of Westerosi news that, right after Daenerys' murder, had disquieted the red priests the most. “A man named Brandon Stark?”, Kinvara said. The queen looked at her blankly, and for a second Kinvara thought she might have mispronounced the name. Then Daenerys shook her head. “What?”

“Do you know of him, Your Grace?” Still shaking her head, she attempted to get off the ground, and the priestess extended a hand to help. “Well, yes, but”, Daenerys made it to her feet, “ _what?_ Why? How?”

Kinvara had already heard that no-one had considered him a likely contender. “I was told that he had been chosen by the lords of Westeros, Your Grace.”

“The -”, Daenerys stopped herself. “The lords of Westeros have begun massive civil wars every time succession seemed even slightly uncertain”, she said slowly. “And now they just – agreed? On a Northern boy who has never ruled, never fought, who cannot even use his legs?”

“We heard that he had magical powers given to him by the false Northern gods”, Kinvara said. “Knowledge of all events past, present, and future.”

“Not the future, I believe”, Daenerys said, still shaking her head. “Jon -”, a pained expression crossed her face. “He once said he thought Bran liked to make people believe he knew the future, but he likely didn't. I am also unsure if his power extends beyond Westeros, or even the North. It seemed to be connected to the weirwood trees.”

That was good to know. Kinvara hadn't wanted to believe that these false gods could give such extensive powers as everyone had claimed. She watched the queen sit back down onto a chair, look down to the floor. “So Jon is at the Wall and Bran Stark is King.” She waved her hands. “Have you heard of the fate of Tyrion Lannister, my traitorous Hand?”

Kinvara swallowed. “It appears that he is Brandon's Hand now. And lord of his ancestral home.”

This laugh was much shorter. “Of course he is. He always knew to look out for himself. What happened to the Unsullied? How did they let any of this happen? And my Dothraki?”

“They have all left Westeros, Your Grace. The Dothraki seem to be on their way back to the Great Grass Sea, and the Unsullied have been seen on ships as well, although I do not know where they are going.”

“Hopefully to Meereen. Although the last time I received reports from there, things seemed to be going quite well.”

Kinvara nodded. “We have not had many news from the Bay of Dragons, Your Grace, but I have noticed a recent influx in trade from the region. Apparently, Meereenese silk is all the rage within the Black Walls now, and Astapori honey seems quite sought-after.”

“Good”, Daenerys said, sounding surprised. Then she frowned. “But that means that they have no need of me. And there is nothing I can do in Westeros now that all my people have left.” She looked directly at Kinvara. “So why am I here? I have fought the army of the dead, and they are gone. I have taken the Iron Throne, and was immediately murdered.” She rose again. “Am I meant to free more slaves? Because I can assure you that I do not have the army for that. Am I meant to join your temple? Or”, now the hint of a smile crossed her face, “has your god brought me back so I could exact my revenge? Fly right back to Westeros, burn the Red Keep to the ground once more”, the smile spread into a threatening grin, “and then pluck Jon Snow from the Wall to kill him like the queenslayer, kinslayer, and oathbreaker he is?” She picked up a coal, cooling but still hot. It didn't seem to affect her, and she looked quite satisfied with that. “Because if _that_ is his plan for me, then I would gladly pledge my life to the Lord of Light.”

The priestess almost wanted to say yes; the prospect of converting the queen was enticing. But instead, she turned and did the only thing she knew to do when everything else was uncertain: She gazed into the flames.

After a few heartbeats, the images became clearer. “I see ruins, Your Grace. Smoke and flames.”

She heard a snort behind her. “King's Landing?”

Kinvara had never been to Westeros, but: “This looks too large, I believe. And there are no people. I only see you flying through the ruins on the back of your dragon.” There was something profoundly disquieting about the image. “Parts of the ground seem almost liquid. Liquid stone. What remains of the buildings is enormous, and resembles the Black Walls -”

She blinked, the vision gone. But its meaning was now clear, and Daenerys' face told her that she, too, had understood. The queen took a deep breath. “Valyria, then.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP boatbaby. Sorry about that.


	7. Wolkan II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, I took what was hopefully my last-ever university exam, so please enjoy this chapter while I get horrendously drunk.

Rushing into the Great Hall, Wolkan found the queen speaking to Beren Tallhart, one of her suitors. A tall, broad-shouldered young man with dark blond hair, he could've been the most handsome of the bunch, if it weren't for his face.

“Your Grace”, Wolkan said and quickly bowed. Queen Sansa did not seem too unhappy that her conversation was interrupted. “Maester. Has there been a raven?”

Of course not. “No, my queen. But a rider.”

“Please excuse me”, she said to Tallhart by way of dismissal, then walked up to Wolkan with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “A rider from King's Landing?”

He shook his head. “Riverrun, then”, she decided, but again he had to deny. “From the Night's Watch, Your Grace.”

The queen frowned. “Are the wildlings already causing trouble?”

Sometimes, he really wished that she would just let him speak. “We do not know, Your Grace. The man is barely conscious after riding south from the Wall. Marsh has given him a room, hot wine, and some bread, but he didn't eat much before falling asleep.”

She pursed her lips. “Then we must wait. In the meantime, I would like to speak with you concerning a different matter. Would you walk with me, maester?”

Definitely not. “Walk, Your Grace?” The idea of going outside was repulsive. There was a real snowstorm upon Winterfell today.

But the queen just smirked and patted his arm. “Through the Great Keep, of course. I do not wish to freeze to death any more than you.”

That was a relief, although he didn't see the point in walking around the dimly lit corridors. There was no arguing with a queen, however, and Wolkan supposed that some people just preferred to have some conversations while walking, as you didn't need to look at the other person then. Perhaps she needed to discuss her ability to conceive once more.

“You see, maester”, she began once they'd left the Great Hall, “I am under the impression that I will need to choose soon.”

“Choose?”, he asked, then understood. “You mean a husband, Your Grace?”

“Indeed.” She sighed. “It really is an unpleasant business, but a necessary one. A queen needs an heir.”

That couldn't be argued with. “Are you planning to chose one of your suitors here? There would certainly be others available. A southern lord, or a foreigner from the Free Cities.”

“Southerners are foreigners too, now”, she said sharply. Wolkan wasn't sure if that applied to him; he'd lived in the North for a long time before its independence, but had been born the Vale. No matter, the queen seemed to tolerate him. “It needs to be a northerner”, she said. “And the four who are here do represent the most appropriate men in my kingdom. They are from powerful Houses who have remained loyal to mine, but they themselves won't inherit anything. In that, they are all highly suitable.”

He shot her a glance, saw that she was looking straight ahead. They were really just walking in circles along the corridor surrounding the Great Hall. “Then your choice should be based on which one you like best, Your Grace”, he remarked, unsure of why they were having this conversation.

“Of course not.” The queen sounded shocked. “My choice should be based on who is best for Winterfell. They are all fine for the North as a whole, but they still need to be tolerated within the castle. I have already spoken to Alard and Ser Hallis, and I will seek out Edwin this afternoon. Now I ask you, maester: Which one would you have me choose? Beren Tallhart is not the most interesting man, but he is tolerable and can swing a sword, should we ever be attacked. Robert Flint cannot guard his tongue, although at least that makes him honest. Rickard Ryswell is so proud it borders on arrogance, but I do believe that there is honour underneath. They are both capable fighters. Denys Dustin is the blandest man I have ever met and by all accounts useless with a sword, though this also means that he would not cause us any problems.”

Maester Wolkan really didn't know what to make of this. Either it was some kind of test, or a genuine question brought on by the queen's complete lack of female companions.

“Well, Your Grace”, he began, then had to pause. Now what? “What did Marsh and Ser Hallis say?”

He could almost see her rolling her eyes. “I would rather hear your own answer, maester.”

Great. “Well”, he said again. Then he decided that if she made him uncomfortable, he could pay her back in kind. “Which one do you find least threatening?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Wolkan looked at her, even though she still didn't meet his eye. They had already passed the door to the Great Hall once, now going in another circle. “I am well aware of what Ramsay did to you. I heard it every night.” She paled. “Hearing that again would certainly be bad for your household.”

The queen didn't speak for a moment, but stared down at her feet. Then she cleared her throat. “And who of the four do you believe to be the least like Ramsay? He, too, seemed pleasant enough before he decided to reveal his true nature.”

Wolkan had to keep himself from shrugging. “Dustin seems so unassuming that I wouldn't trust him”, he said. “As for the others, I do not know, although I have to say that I find Flint extremely annoying.” He wasn't looking at her know, but could tell she was surprised from the corner of his eye. They had never had such a blunt conversation before. “I would suggest you choose Tallhart or Ryswell. Boring or arrogant, I believe they are both quite harmless.” All of them were, probably. Over the last few weeks, three separate serving girls had come to him for moon tea. He didn't know which of the four had bedded them, but the girls had seemed fine.

The queen nodded. “Thank you, maester. Do let me know when the rider from the Watch has recovered.”

 

Luckily, that didn't take long. The man had needed a few hours' sleep next to a fire, and then a large bowl of rabbit stew. After that had been taken care of, he seemed eager to relay his message.

The queen received him on her throne in the Great Hall, surrounded by her advisors.

“Forgive my unexpected arrival, Your Grace”, he said after the formalities had been dealt with. “We had sent ravens, but the Lord Commander thought that they might not have made it through the snowstorms.”

“They did not, and of course you are welcome at Winterfell”, the queen replied. “Does the Night's Watch require our aid? I did not expect the wildlings to restart their raids so quickly.”

At least her habit of trying to guess the message before listening to the messenger didn't apply only to Wolkan. “No, Your Grace”, the rider said. “It's about Jon Snow.”

The queen stilled. “What happened to him?” This was intriguing. Wolkan briefly wondered whether there had been any loyalists of the Dragon Queen up there who'd made quick work of him.

The rider seemed uncomfortable. “Nothing, Your Grace. It's just that – well, when he arrived at the Wall, the wildlings were just about to return north. And your brother-” The man caught himself, looking uncertain. The matter of Jon Snow's true heritage seemed to be highly confusing to most people, due to conflicting reports. “The former Lord Commander”, he said instead, “left with them.”

There was a pause. Wolkan exchanged a glance with Marsh, who had once had a cousin at the Wall. They both knew what this meant, but the queen didn't seem ready to accept that. “He was given orders to follow the wildlings beyond the Wall?”, she suggested. “To keep an eye on them, I assume?”

The rider shook his head regretfully. “I'm afraid not, Your Grace. We all love him in the Watch, at least those of us who were around during the Long Night. We know what he's done for us – all of us who are living. But he was sentenced to join us again, and instead he's gone to live with the wildlings. That means he's a deserter.”

The word hung heavily in the air. The queen was wringing her hands but not speaking, and the rider continued. “We're all truly sorry, Your Grace. We really didn't want to bring this news to you of all people. But whoever rules in Winterfell must bring justice to deserters.” Then he shrugged. “Of course, that's only if you catch him. We honestly don't think he's ever gonna come south of the Wall again, so really, this is more of a formality. But we're obliged to let you know.”

That seemed to be a relief for the queen. She regained the small bit of her composure that she'd lost, and then asked the man about rebuilding the Wall. As it turned out, cold weather really was very helpful, but the Watch needed cranes and all kinds of materials they didn't have.

After she'd dismissed the rider, the queen stood from her throne and regarded her advisors. “Jon”, she said. “A deserter.” She shook her head. “How can that even be? I know that he should not even be up there; he has done nothing wrong. But he was always so honourable. I cannot imagine that he would break an oath like that.”

Edwin Snow cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Your Grace. He did also kill the queen he was sworn to.”

Sansa glared at him. “A false queen, Snow. A tyrant.” She took a deep breath, and then seemed to have a thought. “Maester, do you believe that I could pardon him?”

Wolkan considered that. It was a complicated question indeed. “Well, Your Grace”, he began. “That is really very difficult to say. There is the question of whether the Wall is beholden to the North, or to the Southern Kingdoms, or both – something that you will need to settle with King Bran sooner or later. Then, the fact that he was sentenced for crimes committed in the south -”

“ _Crimes”_ , she scoffed, but Wolkan continued. “No matter how justified he might have been, he did do it, and that makes him a queenslayer, an oathbreaker, and – although not everyone may know this – a kinslayer, too. Even if there wasn't the question of which throne has the power to pardon him, the magnitude of these crimes coupled with his desertion...” Wolkan shook his head. “It would not be looked upon kindly, Your Grace, and it would cause problems for your brother in the south with the kingdoms who wanted Jon Snow dead from the beginning. I would advise against it.”

She looked to her other advisors, but all of them nodded their agreement. Queen Sansa let out a frustrated sigh and turned to leave. “Then I truly hope that Jon will never cross the Wall again”, she said. “Because if he does, I _will_ pardon him, no matter how much trouble that will give Bran with the ironborn.”


	8. Davos II

Looking around the harbour, Davos was satisfied with the progress they were making in rebuilding the fleet. The shipyards were brimming with activity day and night – recruiting men hadn't been difficult, considering that it was next to the only work available in King's Landing. They had been able to have a few master shipbuilders come in from the Free Cities, too. They had asked the Iron Islands first, but Lady Yara had insisted that they needed all their builders for themselves.

He gave a few last orders before heading to the Red Keep. There'd be a small council meeting soon, and he, at least, would be able to give a good report.

As he looked towards King's Landing, however, he knew that he might be the only one with good news. Davos hadn't lived there for a long time, sure, but he still knew that city better than anyone else on the council, and he was very aware that they needed to do much more than they were doing at the moment.

Once he arrived at the small council chamber, he noticed that the king was absent, as was usual. His Grace had the habit of joining their meetings towards the end.

“Ser Davos”, Tyrion greeted him, a cup of wine in his hand. “How goes the shipbuilding?”

“Good, my Lord Hand”, he replied. “Although I'm not sure about how many sailors we'll have once the ships are done.”

“That will still take some time though, will it not?”, Tyrion asked, and Davos nodded. “We'll send word to all the Six Kingdoms then, let them know that we are recruiting.”

Satisfied with that, Tyrion turned towards Samwell Tarly. “Grand Maester, have you -”

“If you will, my lord”, Davos interrupted. “The state of King's Landing is dire. The people have no food, no work; they barely have houses to live in. The streets are filled with preachers and -”

“And we are doing everything we can”, Tyrion replied. “This city was just burned to the ground.”

“Are we really doing _everything_?”, Davos asked. “Because it's not nearly enough.” He looked around the table. His other councillors did not seem half as concerned as he was, except for the master of laws, Ser Edmund Blackwood. “It is difficult, yes”, the boy said. “We have more willing recruits for the City Watch than we need, but they are all half-starved, untrained, and undisciplined. Theft, rape, and murder run rampant.”

Lord Bronn shrugged. “They always have, haven't they? We don't have the money to take care of beggars and whores, but if they murder each other, the problem solves itself.”

Ser Brienne, Ser Edmund, and Lord Royce looked at him in shock. “That is _not_ how you govern, Lord Blackwater.” Royce spat out the title with disdain.

“Maybe not where you're from”, Bronn said, but Davos shook his head before anyone else could say anything. “I'm the only one here from King's Landing.” Often, he wished that Gendry had got a seat on this council, but Tyrion had declared that he'd be loyal enough without a position. “And this is the worst I've ever seen it. Yes, it's been burned down, but we need to do so much more -”

“Agreed”, Lord Royce said, and turned to the young master of laws. “Ser, if you need better men, I could ask Lord Arryn if the Vale has anyone to spare. Order must be brought to the city with a firm hand.”

Davos held back a sigh. Order had to be brought with bread and houses. “Then see it done, my lord”, Tyrion said before Davos could add anything, and refilled his wine. “Now, Grand Maester, you told me earlier that you'd received a raven?”

That topic was done then, for now. “Yes, my lord”, Tarly said. “From the maester at Sunspear. He informs the king that the fleet carrying the Unsullied has been seen sailing south past the harbour.”

Everyone turned to Ser Ryon Allyrion, master of whisperers. “I have heard the same. It appears that Westeros is truly rid of them. I have heard claims that they are headed for Naath.”

“Naath?” The Grand Maester was aghast. “Do they not know what happens to foreigners on Naath?”

“Who cares? The sooner they die, the better.” Content with that assessment, Bronn nodded to himself.

Before they could continue, Tyrion suddenly stood, almost spilling his wine. The king had arrived, then. They all rose, muttered their greetings, and sat again.

There was a brief silence as the king calmly surveyed them. Perhaps he would have more than one concern, this time?

“Ser Ryon”, he said. Apparently not, then. “Any news of Drogon?”

The Dornishman sighed. “There have been reports that he has been spotted around Volantis”, he said. “But others claim they have seen him in the north of the Disputed Lands, towards Myr. Someone I know in Norvos swears that he has heard of a dragon in the Hills of Andalos, and a Braavosi merchant told me yesterday that he has been seen close to Qohor.” He put up his hands. “It seems almost certain that Drogon is somewhere in western Essos, Your Grace, but at this point, we cannot know where. Of course, he can move very quickly, too.”

As always, the king's face showed no emotion. “If I may, Your Grace”, Tyrion said, “Have you had no success in finding him? Maybe it would help to narrow down Ser Ryon's search if -”

“I have not”, the king interrupted. He almost sounded angry. “I can't -” He shook his head. “I have been able to see dragons before, but not for now, it seems. Maybe he has some sort of magic.” He turned towards Pod, standing behind him as always. “Ser Podrick, please bring me to the godswood.”

They said their ceremonial farewell. Then, the members of the small council regarded each other. Usually, they'd leave now, but they all seemed to share the same sense of unease.

Tyrion emptied his cup. “Ser Davos, Ser Edmund”, he said. “I wish to discuss in how far the City Watch is needed in the harbour. The rest of you, lords and sers, may return to your duties.”

They followed him to the Tower of the Hand and Tyrion's solar, where he promptly called a serving girl to bring them wine. “Ser Edmund”, Tyrion began, watching the young man intently. “Forgive me for the deception, but in truth, I wish to discuss something completely unrelated to your duties. Your House follows the old gods, is that right?”

“Yes, my Lord Hand.” The maid hurriedly entered the solar. Tyrion spoke while the girl poured their wine: “Then you must have heard tales of the Three-Eyed Raven as a child, have you not?”

Davos quickly glanced at the maid and then Tyrion, but he shrugged. There was likely no more need for spies in the Red Keep; not with this king. “I have, my lord”, Ser Edmund said. “Although I always believed they were just that; tales – until His Grace, of course.”

Tyrion nodded slowly, as the girl put down the flagon and left. “Then the three-eyed raven is connected to the old gods and the North?”

Edmund shook his head. “To the old gods, yes. But they are not limited to the North. You know that my House is from the Riverlands, and that before the Andals, the old gods were worshipped in all of Westeros.”

“Of course.” Tyrion nodded slowly. “Is the power of the old gods dependent on the weirwood trees?”

“Not entirely.” Ser Edmund took a sip of wine himself. “We do not have a weirwood at Raventree Hall since the Brackens poisoned ours centuries ago, but we still use our godswood, just as King Bran uses the godswood here. A heart tree does not need to be a weirwood.” Tyrion hummed thoughtfully. “However”, Edmund admitted, “the old gods are stronger where there are weirwoods, and that means that they are stronger in the North.”

“Ah.” Tyrion nodded. “Do you believe that your gods have power in Essos, ser?”

Edmund looked stumped. “I do not know, my lord. They are the old gods of Westeros, of course, and they were the gods of the children of the forest even before the First Men arrived. They did not come from Essos, as the Seven did.”

“Indeed.” Tyrion looked at the boy. “Thank you, ser. Now I believe that you have a City Watch to attend to.”

Looking confused, Ser Edmund said his farewells. Once he had left, Tyrion turned to Davos. “Now, my friend”, he said. “That was enlightening, was it not?”

“Was it?” Davos had mostly been listening and enjoying the taste of the fine Dornish red. Ser Ryon had brought a few choice casks when he had arrived in King's Landing.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “As his advisors, it is our duty to understand the extent as well as the limitations of our king's powers. Did this sound to you as if he could find a dragon in Essos, if his gods' magic does not extend past the Narrow Sea?”

“I suppose not”, Davos said. “Does it matter?”

“No.” Tyrion refilled his cup. “It just makes Ser Ryon's task that much more difficult. But beyond Drogon's whereabouts, we do not need to concern ourselves with what happens in Essos.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really subtle, I know.


	9. Yara III | Anders II

Yara III

As she reached Lordsport, Yara immediately led her small horse to the inn's stable – any second she could get out of the pouring rain was valuable. Finally under a roof, she dismounted and gave the reins to a stableboy as around her, men and women quickly bowed their heads before returning to their tasks.

The Dornish ships had already anchored. Yara cursed the long distance between Pyke castle and the harbour, then pulled her hood deeper, and stepped back out into the rain.

Prince Anders had made good on his promise. She counted twenty large Dornish trading galleys, some of them already being unloaded. This would give them a good amount of timber to start their rebuilding of the iron fleet. She had sent most of what was left of it to the North to pillage their woods, which should yield good results as well. At any other time it would be risk, but the Northern heartland was too snowed in for any lord to leave his castle. They might not even notice, at least not for a while.

But Yara hadn't come here to greet trees. She walked up to the ship bearing the new princely Dornish sigil; two spears crossed in front of black iron gate on an orange background. Apparently it was a combination of the Yronwood and Martell sigils, although Yara had never been too interested in Dornish heraldry.

A slim figure descended the plank of the flagship. That had to be the princess. As Yara got closer, she could see that the woman was younger than her; surely not much older than twenty years. Her long, dark hair was soaked from the rain, and the leather coat she was wearing above what looked like silk couldn't be doing much to protect her body from the weather.

It was a lithe body, crowned by a very pretty face. “Princess Gwyneth”, Yara greeted her. Green eyes studied her, and she realised that the woman probably couldn't tell who she was.

But then, realisation set in, and she curtsied. “Your Grace. It is an honour to meet you.” She had always liked a Dornish accent on girls. “My father sends his greetings.”

His greetings, aye, and a large pile of wood, and a beautiful spy. “The Iron Islands appreciate his generosity.” That was probably the most polite thing she had ever said. She looked down at the princess, who was a good head smaller than her, and realised that she was trying very hard not to shiver. “Let's get you out of the rain”, she decided. “I don't think our alliance will last long if you cough yourself to death up here.”

 

A while later, Yara was picking on some smoked fish and brown bread in a room at the inn. The princess had been taking a bath in the room next door, although she could now hear her rummaging through the chest a servant had brought up from the ship.

Then, Gwyneth stepped through the door. She was wearing a beautiful gown of sheer painted silk, and sandals. “Don't get me wrong, princess”, Yara said, “you look gorgeous in that. But you'll need a new wardrobe if you want to survive the weather here.”

“I have brought leathers and boots.” The queen pointed to the chair across from her, and Gwyneth sat, eyeing the food critically. “But we are not leaving immediately, are we?” She glanced towards the window. The rain had only got worse.

“Don't worry.” Yara poured her some ale. “It's a long ride back to Pyke. We'll leave when the rain lets up.” She watched as the princess took a sip and almost managed to conceal the disgust on her graceful features. “Wouldn't want a delicate thing like you to succumb to your first storm.”

Gwyneth's eyes locked into hers. “Delicate thing”, she repeated flatly. “If that is your first impression, then you will find me quite surprising.” Yara almost grinned. “And we do have storms in Dorne.” She tore off a bit of bread.

“I know”, Yara admitted. “I've been. Almost lost a ship near Starfall, and another at the Salt Shore. And all of that before the war.”

The princess nodded, swallowing down a piece of smoked cod. “Were you on your way to Sunspear?”

“And then east”, Yara said. It had been a good time, before everything, when she could just sail the world. “I've always liked Dorne. Wish I could return, but unfortunately”, she pointed around them, “I now have these rain-soaked, barren islands to rule.”

“We all have our duties.” Gwyneth had another taste of the ale, shook her head. “I have brought a few casks of wine”, she mentioned, and Yara smirked. “We're not known for our ale here. Or our food, for that matter. You'll find that this place is very different from what you're used to.” She eyed Gwyneth. The princess carried herself with the confidence possessed by all Dornish noblewomen – raised as equals to their brothers, free to act the way they wanted. “I'll make sure that the men behave themselves, but they'll treat you differently than down in Dorne.”

“So I have been told.” Now Gwyneth was looking her over. “We have head female rulers for centuries. The Iron Islands have never seen one, not in thousands of years. And yet here you are; their queen.” Although Yara hated to admit it, it felt good to hear that. It wasn't something anyone ever acknowledged. “How did you do it?”

She tried to shrug as nonchalantly as possible. “Ran out of brothers, and then out of uncles. I'm good on a ship and with an axe. And I had an alliance with the Dragon Queen.”

“Of course.” The princess stood and walked towards Yara's side of the table. “I am not too concerned about your men misbehaving, Your Grace. I can take care of myself.” She pointed to her right leg. Through the thin fabric of Gwyneth's gown, Yara could see a dagger strapped to her thigh.

“Do they teach girls how to use those in Dorne?”, she asked. Quick as a snake, the princess unsheathed the dagger. Had Yara not been caught off guard, she might've been able to grab her wrist or draw one of her own knives. Instead, Gwyneth was holding the dagger to her throat.

“You're certainly quick”, she acknowledged, and the princess removed the sharp blade from her neck. As she returned the dagger to its holster, Yara got an enticing glimpse of soft, sun-kissed skin. “I'm still not really sure what you're supposed to be doing here”, she said, looking up at Gwyneth. “But should you grow bored, I'd be happy to train with you.”

The princess gave a small curtsey. “It would be a pleasure, Your Grace.”

 

 

Anders II

It was pleasantly cool in Sunspear. Prince Anders would be happy with a long winter; for a Dornishman, he didn't like the heat much.

He was having a good day. Earlier, two ravens had arrived. One had come from the Iron Islands, informing him that Gwyneth had been welcomed at Pyke, and conveying Queen Yara's gratitude for the timber. The other had been sent by his good-son in King's Landing. Ser Ryon had learned that some of the usurper king's advisors were speculating about the extent of his magical powers. Apparently, they thought it likely that he wasn't entirely all-knowing; rather, his power depended on the heart trees. If that was true, Anders thought, then his abilities had to be constrained by his being in King's Landing instead of the North. He likely wouldn't be able to follow everything as far south as Dorne, and maybe nothing at all in Essos. That was good news indeed.

Prince Anders strode through the Tower of the Sun towards the audience chamber. He had left Ynys in Yronwood with her young sons to oversee the Unsullied, while he himself had to take care of the everyday duties of the Prince of Dorne. Before he could reach the chamber, one of his guards approached him.

“My prince.” The man bowed. “A red priest has come to request a private audience.”

How irritating. “Please just tell the man than I will not be converted. It would save both of us time.”

But the guard shook his head. “He asked me to tell you specifically that he has not come to speak of conversion, m'lord. He says he has news from the east, and that they are for m'lord's ears only.”

Anders considered this for a moment. He supposed that there could be no harm in hearing the priest out, even though he suspected that this could be a ploy, and in the end he'd only hear about how he had to renounce the false gods. Or worse. “Very well, then”, he said. “I will meet him in the gardens after I have heard the other supplicants. Make sure that there are guards out of earshot, but able to see us.”

With that, he entered the chamber and took care of the everyday business. A few wine merchants from the shadow city were complaining about being shortchanged by their suppliers. A Tyroshi trader tried to bribe him with gifts so he'd lower tariffs on armour. A horse breeder offered a discount on warhorses, no doubt in the hope of retaining a favour. And on it went, but Anders didn't mind. When he had seized control of Dorne, he'd done it because he'd wanted to rule. This was part of ruling.

After that was done, he went to meet the red priest. There had always been more of them in Dorne than in the rest of Westeros, due to their closer ties with Essos. They were mostly harmless, although their fervour meant that they were constantly pestering the lords, ladies, and princes with their attempts at conversion.

The one awaiting him in the gardens was a tall, thin man who looked like he might be Qohorik, his long red robes accentuating his slim stature. “Prince Anders”, he greeted. “An honour. In Essos, we hear tales of you as a strong and diligent ruler.”

“I have ruled Dorne for less than a year”, Anders remarked. “I was told you had news for me?”

“Indeed, dear prince.” The priest looked around. “It is of outmost importance that we are not overheard.”

“We will not be”, the prince assured him. He was growing curious, and truly hoped that this news wouldn't just revolve around the night being dark and full of terrors.

“My name is Nabho, my lord. I was sent to you by Kinvara, the High Priestess of Volantis. We believe that Dorne remains loyal to the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

This sounded like a trap. “If you are referring to Daenerys Targaryen”, Anders said, “then you must know that she is dead. Dorne was indeed loyal to her House, but it is no more. We support King Bran.”

“That is not what the flames tell us”, Nabho replied. “Although I understand why you might think that you need to say this. I have been sent to tell you that the queen lives.”

Anders stared at him. What? “She is dead”, he said slowly, as if trying to explain the concept to a child. “She was killed by Jon Snow.”

“Have you seen her body?”, the priest asked, seemingly unperturbed by Anders' incredulity. He shook his head impatiently. “It was carried away by her dragon.” Realisation began to dawn on him. “Do you mean to tell me that she survived?” He'd heard that Snow had stabbed her, of course. But people could survive stabbings.

Again, he shook his head. He shouldn't make himself believe such things. “She was killed”, Nabho said matter-of-factly. “Then her dragon took her body to a red temple outside Volantis. The High Priestess saw this in the flames, came to her, and the Lord of Light worked through the High Priestess to fill the queen with the flame of life once more.”

“That is impossible.” While he tried to understand why the red priests would fabricate such a story, Nabho regarded him calmly. “Have you heard of Beric Dondarrion, good prince?”

Of course he had. He'd met the man several times when he'd been younger, and later, he had heard the stories of his multiple deaths and resurrections during the War of the Five Kings. They had said he'd been revived by his red priest, the old drunkard Thoros of Myr. “There were rumours, yes.”

“And of Jon Snow himself, of course.” Anders narrowed his eyes. A spy or two had told him of stories that Snow had been killed by his own men at the Wall, and then been revived by a priestess of the Lord of Light.

Could it be? “Those tales aside”, Anders said, “why would I believe you?”

Nabho reached into his red robes. “The queen herself told the High Priestess that Dorne would remain loyal”, he said, and produced a large, flat, black item from a hidden pocket. He handed it to the prince. “She does not yet know what path she will take, but she cannot have been brought back without a reason. She wants you to remain faithful.”

The thing he had given him was as large and thick as the prince's hand, oval-shaped and of a shiny black material. It also came with a scrap of parchment. After a moment, he realised what it was.

“Is that a dragon scale?” The priest nodded. Anders had never seen anything like it, and he hadn't seen Daenerys' last dragon, either. But he had seen illustrations in many an old tome, and he honestly didn't think that it could be anything else.

Either they had sourced a black dragon scale from somewhere else, or they actually had Drogon. Of course, there had been many reports that he'd been seen around Volantis. Even more, the prince could not imagine that anyone would be able to get close enough to the dragon to remove a scale, or even survive the actual attempt – unless it was the Mother of Dragons herself.

He studied the small piece of parchment. It was burned all around the edges, and the elegant writing had been produced in a rust-coloured ink. Or was it ink?

 _Fire and Blood_ , Anders realised with a shudder he could not quite explain. The message was short; just three lines, one below the other:

 

_it is not over_

_do not forget_

_I will not forgive_

 

If this was some kind of ploy, it was well-done, and he could not quite fathom what its purpose would be. He would need a good amount of time to think on this.

Anders looked up at the priest, and decided to take a risk. He couldn't imagine that the usurper king would have anything to do with this. “I have allied with Queen Yara of the Iron Islands. Neither she nor I accept the new order in Westeros.” If he had miscalculated, this sentence had just cost him his head. “Have you been directed to her as well?”

“Indeed, dear prince.” Anders handed him back the scale and the parchment. “I would advise you disguise yourself then; the ironborn do not have any love for faiths other than their own.” He paused. “I will give you a note you can hand to my daughter there. She will vouch for you.”

His thoughts were racing. If this was true – _if_ – then what did any of this mean? Would Daenerys want to reclaim her throne? Would he want to support that? The Unsullied would certainly fight him if he didn't. She still had her one dragon, of course, and there was the Bay of Dragons that, as far as he knew, remained under her control in some shape.

Prince Anders sent the priest on his way, who left with the ominous remark that he'd see more of his kind in the future. Then he got his horse as well as a handful of guards who insisted on joining, and rode out into the desert.

There was no better place to think. And thinking was something he would need to do a lot of.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh I feel like Dany's body being carried off should've sparked a whole host of conspiracy theories, but whatever.


	10. Daenerys I

High in the sky, she looked down on the clouds covering Valyria. On dragonback, it hadn't been a long journey from Volantis. They had only stopped once to eat and rest, in the mountains around Mantarys, where Drogon had roasted himself a herd of six-legged goats.

Daenerys took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Since the Doom, no-one had ever visited Valyria and lived to tell the tale, and she had no intention of dying again so soon. But then, no-one had tried to do it on a dragon either, and she doubted that any of the explorers had been raised from the dead before.

With that thought, she gave Drogon the command, and they descended through the clouds. They weren't storm clouds, not really, but they were thick and red and foul-smelling. No matter.

After what felt like a long time, they made it through, and Daenerys was gifted with the most glorious, most terrifying, most heartbreaking sight she'd ever seen.

The ruins were enormous. The remains of Valyria's towers were so high that they almost touched the clouds, and so large that they dwarfed even Drogon. Everything was bathed in a red light, the air was hot and smelled of sulphur, and the ground far beneath them seemed to be slowly moving as if the molten stone still hadn't set; four hundred years after the Doom.

Everything had been built of the familiar material she knew from Dragonstone, but it was so much more beautiful. The high spires looked impossibly delicate, and she could see the remains of silver, gold, and even gemstones decorating their outsides. Some were connected by bridges on several levels, looking tiny in comparison to the towers, but still wide enough for several carts to pass through. Down below, the remains of smaller buildings could be seen, although they had suffered the most when the ground had opened up. Even the small houses seemed larger than the Red Keep.

Drogon let out a shriek and soared through the skies, circling the towers. It was clear that it was a city built for dragons, as she could often see terraces and balconies so large that several of them could easily fit. Many of the buildings were inscribed with Valyrian runes, and the bridges seemed to have been enforced with Valyrian steel. For a second, she considered that the sheer amount of the material used would have defeated the army of the dead a hundred times over.

She could feel the heat and the smell, yes, but also the magic that still hung in the air. As they flew through the ruins, Daenerys was filled with an overwhelming feeling of pride and a deep, existential despair.

She had always called herself the blood of old Valyria, but she had never known what it meant; not until now. This was what her people had accomplished, and this was how they had perished. She had seen much of the world, but never anything that could come even close to this magnificence.

Of course those of the Old Blood were proud; of course her family had tried to keep it pure. She could suddenly understand why generations of Targaryens had considered themselves as above the Westerosi, could even understand the slavemasters of Volantis behind their Black Walls. Of course they thought that they were more than mere men – their ancestors had built _this_. They were close to gods.

Feeling Drogon's power beneath her, Daenerys realised something else. There were many of Valyrian blood still in the world, but they weren't the descendants of dragonlords. Only one House had escaped the Doom with dragons: hers. There were only two people left in the world who could lay claim to this glory, and the other one had killed her.

No wonder they'd both come back from the dead, then. No god could permit their extinction.

She'd thought much about the half-formed babe that had come out of her after she had come back to life. Mirri Maz Duur had told her that she wouldn't bear a living child, not that she couldn't get pregnant, and so far she hadn't been wrong. Then again, she hadn't said anything about her dying and coming back to life.

Daenerys looked around, and laughed. She'd never know if this child would have made it into the world; her having been dead for a while would have killed it either way. But why had she ever believed that a Lhazareen witch could curse the blood of the dragon? It seemed so absurd, now that she was here.

She didn't know if it was Drogon's decision or her own, but they were flying towards one of the largest buildings in the ruins. Perhaps it just seemed like the largest because it was the most intact. It was a tower with a base many times wider than that of the Great Pyramid of Meereen (there was a reason that her people had crushed the Ghiscari many times; that even she, as only one, had defeated them), and so high that it actually, truly touched the clouds. Drogon flew towards an enormous opening close to its top, and landed on the large, protruding balcony.

No stone crumbled as his massive body landed; not like with Westerosi buildings. Her dragon walked inside, and Daenerys straightened to sit upright on his back. For everything she'd accomplished, she felt as if this moment might be the most important of all. The first dragonrider in Valyria since the Doom.

They entered a round hall of almost incomprehensible proportions. It could have fit many dragons; more than she could imagine ever seeing in one place. The floor, walls, and the domed ceiling all seemed to be made of polished dragonglass carved with runes. Dozens of columns were around them, all translucent and made of a variety of gemstones, inlayed with precious metals and Valyrian steel. They depicted dragons, ridden by men and women who looked much like Daenerys. The ancient version of the runes wasn't used much anymore even by speakers of High Valyrian, but she could sound them out.

Meraxes, one of them said. Vhagar, another, and many names she had never heard, but also Syrax, and Balerion.

She was in a temple. In the middle of the hall stood a large, round dragonglass table; an altar. Drogon lowered his shoulder so she could descend. Her heart beating loudly in her chest, Daenerys sat feet on her ancestors' hollowed ground. She slowly walked towards the altar, touched the stone. It was warm and smooth, as she'd thought. It, too, was engraved with beautiful calligraphy. If only she could read it.

Looking to the dome high above her and the unimaginable splendour all around, another new conviction formed in Daenerys' mind: It hadn't been the Lord of Light who'd brought her back, that god of peasants and slaves. It had been these gods, the ones of her ancestors, that she knew nothing about.

“Balerion!”, she shouted. “Vhagar, Meraxes, Syrax, and all of you other Gods. Please forgive me for not knowing of you.” She wondered how this must sound to their ears. “Please forgive me also for my Valyrian, I know I must sound nothing like you did. But I am of your blood.” Drogon let out a wisp of flame. “I come to you because you have given me life once more. I come because I do not know what purpose-” She stumbled back. A dizzying feeling was overcoming her, and Daenerys fell towards the altar. “I beg you, Gods of my ancestors-” The world was turning, and her hands grasped the altar, where she pulled herself up before her head could hit the ground. “Please give me-”, she rasped out, then had to lay down on the hot stone. It almost seemed to her that the inscriptions were glowing. Before she could contemplate that thought, Daenerys was startled to realise that she wasn't alone.

High chairs had appeared around the altar. On them sat twenty-seven men and women, all looking very much like her. But instead of borrowed red robes, tattered leathers, and dirty hair, they were dressed immaculately in the finest silks she'd ever seen, and their bright hair shone almost as much as the countless jewels and precious metals adorning them.

“You have seen now, daughter”, one of them said, although she wasn't sure which one. The sound was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard. That, she realised, was how High Valyrian had sounded four-hundred years ago. “You have seen what we were, and what is in your blood. And now you must understand your purpose.”

She sat up and looked into the gently smiling faces around her. She'd never seen anyone as perfect as any of these people. People? Gods? She didn't know. She still couldn't actually see anyone speak. “I thought it was to rule from the Iron Throne”, she said.

“The Iron Throne is no more.” Kinvara had told her that much. “But you must rule. The blood of the dragon does not bow; it must be bowed to. And it must not end.”

She gasped as she suddenly held a babe in her arms, violet eyes blinking up at her, before it was gone as quickly as it had come. “How can I rule if I cannot take power?”, she asked. Suddenly, she was on Drogon, flying over Meereen. The Targaryen banners flew from the Great Pyramid, and people cheered her in the streets. Then she was back. “You still are a queen.”

“And who could I continue the bloodline with? There's only one left, and he killed me.”

The Gods regarded her impassively. Jon Snow's face flashed before her. “He killed me!”, she protested. “He is the blood of the dragon”, they replied.

“How can I have a child with him if I remain in Meereen?” The thought of sending him a polite invitation crossed her mind, and almost caused another hysterical laughing fit.

“You do not need to remain in Meereen. You have already taken the first step.” She saw a dark-haired man in a lush garden study the dragon scale and parchment she'd given Kinvara. Then more visions followed, quick flashes before her eyes, and ideas began to form.

Fire and Blood, yes. The last time she'd embraced it, Jon had killed her for it. But that didn't mean she'd have to let him the next time.

“You understand”, the bodiless voice of the Gods said. Then the world turned dark.

 

She didn't know for how long she'd stayed unconscious. She could see outside the temple, but the sky appeared as red as it had earlier. Awkwardly shuffling off the altar, she could see Drogon already waiting for her at the exit. Daenerys mounted and they flew off, although it wasn't time to leave Valyria just yet.

There was somewhere else she needed to go. She would have loved to find the tower that the Targaryens of old had inhabited, but of course they had left before the Doom, and another family had quickly moved in. Drogon soared downwards until they reached a lower level of the same tower.

Through another massive entryway they went, and past three mostly destroyed gates of solid Valyrian steel. In a hall as large as the temple were the the greatest treasures she had ever seen.

Here, the columns were lined with shelves, as were the walls, with countless tables in between. Almost every surface was covered in a staggering amount of jewellery, gemstones, metal bars, and weapons. She could not believe just how much easier her entire journey would have been if she'd just flown Drogon into Valyria a few years ago – she could have bought every sellsword company in the world, for hundreds of years each.

But that was before. Perhaps she wouldn't have survived, then. Now she had a very different problem: there was only so much she could carry.

Daenerys walked among the shelves, carefully studying the wonders before her. She picked out a few rings, bracelets, crowns, and necklaces for her personal use, and then a few others with particularly large gemstones to sell or exchange. Kinvara had given her a bag for provisions that she'd tied to Drogon, and the jewellery didn't take up much space. She threw in a few smaller gold bars and loose stones for good measure.

Then, she turned towards the weapons. It now seemed laughable to her that she had only ever used a sword once, and that it had been a rusty old thing picked off a dead wight. Now, hundreds of Valyrian steel weapons lay before her, enough to supply every House in Westeros with its own ancestral blade. Not that she had any plans to do so.

Daenerys chose a few swords of varying sizes, and a dagger that felt comfortable in her hand. Valyrian steel was light, although Drogon wouldn't have had trouble either way.

Unfortunately, she didn't see any armour. But as she was looking for it, her eyes fell upon something else that made her breath hitch.

Of course, she thought. If there was any place in the world that would have them, it would be the Great Treasury of Valyria. Still.

Dozens upon dozens of dragon eggs lined one of the columns. She tried to imagine taking all of them – Aegon hat conquered Westeros with three dragons, but how much easier would it be with ninety? The idea would have seemed absurd anywhere but here, where many more than ninety dragons would have lived at once.

But no, she couldn't carry that many. Besides, the dragon had three heads. She looked towards Drogon, who had stayed at the entrance until now. The dragon carefully waded through the hall, although he was still occasionally knocking down a row of jewellery here and there. Once he had reached her, his massive head gave her a gentle nudge, then turned towards the eggs.

After a moment, he stuck out his tongue to touch a dark blue egg with silvery veins, and then another the colour of blood, lined with gold. Daenerys nodded, and carefully picked up the two eggs.

“Now we are ready”, she told him. “Let us return to Meereen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuine magical prophecy? Spiritual experience? Fumes-induced hallucinations of a madwoman? You decide.


	11. Rickard I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have noticed that the rating went up with this chapter. This is because it contains a semi-detailed scene describing a sex act where consent is highly dubious at best, so take that as a warning.  
> (The other warnings I've added don't apply to this chapter.)

He'd always known he'd get married, of course. He'd never given it too much thought, but had just assumed that as a second son, he would get the daughter of some minor lord and then live with her in a smaller keep somewhere in the Rills. He had hoped that she'd be comely and obedient, and that she'd give him many sons to bear his name.

Now that his wedding was imminent, he couldn't quite believe just how differently things had turned out. His bride was the most beautiful woman in the North; that was good, but she was also cold and mildly terrifying, and his queen. He'd never imagined he would one day marry a queen, especially as queens normally gained their royal status by marrying kings.

She might still give him sons, but they would be Starks. That had been proclaimed by royal decree. Rickard himself would be king consort, which apparently meant that he wouldn't truly rule. That much he was fine with, he supposed. After having spent a long time courting the queen in Winterfell, he had decided that ruling seemed like an exhausting business.

Some had whispered that this union might result in no sons at all. She had, famously, been married before, and never got with child. He knew, naturally, that there were ways for women to avoid pregnancy; he'd sent many a serving girl for moon tea. He was a bit irked by the idea that his bride wasn't a maid, though, and relatively disturbed by the rumours he'd heard about just how she'd become a widow.

Straightening his bronze-and-black doublet and taking a last look in the mirror, Rickard decided that he only had himself to blame. He had remained at Winterfell at the orders of his father, and from that point on he'd known that the other three suitors wouldn't stand a chance. It had never seemed like the queen had much affection for him, but he hadn't been surprised when she'd announced her choice. A Ryswell of the Rills would beat any Northern House except for the Starks, and he certainly was the best-looking and most charming in his family. He'd always been able to woo women.

A sharp knock on the door was followed by a guard telling him it was time. Rickard left the chambers he'd been occupying in Winterfell since the queen's coronation. He wouldn't be returning there, but instead move into the lord's rooms – even though he wouldn't truly be the Lord of Winterfell.

It was all a very confusing situation, he thought as he made his way down to the godswood. He was gaining a position far greater than he'd ever imagined, but he'd be below his wife. He wouldn't even cloak her, as she'd remain a Stark. Robert Flint had suggested that maybe it was Rickard who should be cloaked since his children wouldn't even bear his name, but then again, Flint was angry that the queen hadn't picked him.

The godswood was beautiful tonight. Winterfell's was, of course, the largest and most impressive in the North, but tonight it was breathtaking. Rickard had never been a pious man, and yet, he thought he could truly feel the old gods now. Lanterns lined the path towards the weirwood, their openings cut in the shapes of direwolves and Ryswell horses. Garlands hung between the trees; white and silver, black and bronze. The massive weirwood itself was illuminated by candles, and on it sat a murder of ravens, gazing down at them in silence.

The Three-Eyed Raven was the brother of the bride. Perhaps he had found a way to attend despite the long distance.

Rickard took his place before the weirwood. It seemed that the old gods had blessed their wedding as, for the first time in weeks, there was a gentle snowfall instead of a vicious storm. He'd just wished that the weather had turned earlier, as the wedding was sparsely attended. Robert Flint, Beren Tallhart, and Denys Dustin – the spurned three – were of course there, not looking at him too kindly. Winterfell's household was present, as was one man of the Night's Watch who had arrived a few weeks earlier. House Cerwyn was in full attendance, since they didn't have a long ride.

The guests spoke to each other as they waited for the bride, but Rickard was constrained to standing next to the weirwood, self-consciously glancing up at the ravens, and wishing his family could've come.

The door to the godswood opened, and Queen Sansa stepped through. Clad in a grey gown with intricate weirwood leaf embroidery and with her crown on her head, she was beautiful in the most unattainable of ways. The thought of having her as his wife made him feel both very proud and completely terrified.

No man was at her side to give her away. To be fair, there was no-one left who could stand in for her father or brother, at least not anywhere within reach of Winterfell. There was barely anyone left alive who'd even known her father.

She arrived before him, snowflakes in her hair, and Rickard hoped deeply that his voice wouldn't waver. “Who comes before the gods?”, he asked.

“Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed”, she replied. These words should've been said by the one giving her away. “The Queen in the North, the Lady of Winterfell. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and royal, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” Royal, she'd said, not noble. He supposed she was. “Me”, he answered. “Rickard of House Ryswell.” He had no titles to add, nor was he heir to anything. “I claim her. Who gives her?”

“The queen gives herself”, she declared, and then: “I take this man.”

With that, she extended her hand to him. He'd looked at her a lot during these last weeks, but he'd never realised just how long and thin her fingers were, nor how pale her skin. He had never touched her before either. He had touched many women, but he didn't think any other had skin this soft.

They knelt before the heart tree and bowed their heads. He felt intensely watched by the tree's weeping face in this moment, and heard the ravens softly caw above.

The queen rose, but lightly placed her hand on his shoulder to tell him to stay down. He heard footsteps, and then her voice. “Under the eyes of the gods, I, Queen Sansa of House Stark, pronounce my lord husband Rickard of House Ryswell my king consort.” He felt her place a circlet on his head, and then she held out her hand to help him stand. He turned to face the guests. The circlet fit well, and he liked the feeling of it. He supposed he was a sort of king now, after all.

Despite her heavy gown, she was light as he carried her out of the godswood. A small feast had been prepared in the Great Hall, far from a lavish affair, but they needed to stay aware of their dwindling food supplies.

“If the gods had granted us a short winter, we might have married in spring”, he said to her once they had reached their places on the dais. He truly wished it had been so. They could've had a large feast, with all the lords and ladies of the North in attendance.

The queen – _his wife_ – nodded. “A short winter is all I have been praying for.”

 

The feast did not last long. Rickard knew that they had raucous bedding traditions in the south, but that was not the Northern way, and even if it had been, he didn't think the queen would have allowed it. Instead, it was custom that a few witnesses accompanied the newlyweds to their chambers before leaving them at the door. In their case, they were the most important members of the queen's household – and the three spurned suitors, to represent the Northern nobility. This gave Rickard more satisfaction than anything else that had happened so far. He thought the three of them looked appropriately bitter as they led him and his wife to the rooms of the Lady of Winterfell.

Once they were alone, his smugness turned to a mix of apprehension and excitement. He was about to bed the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and bedding women was something he was good at. But the queen never seemed pleased with anything, so what if he couldn't please her?

She took off her crown and placed it on a chest as he made to pour both of them some wine. “There is no need for that”, she declared. “Undress.”

A grin spread across his face when he turned to her and saw her undo the laces on her gown. “So eager to be with your husband, my queen?”

She scoffed, freezing his grin. “Spare me your japes, my lord”, she said coldly. “Let us do our duty and be done with it.”

Do his duty? He'd never thought of it that way. “It can be the most pleasurable duty of all, Your Grace.” She ignored him, continuing to tear at her laces. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he could see a tremble in her hands.

This wasn't what women were usually like when they were about to bed him. Some were shy and some were lewd, but they never seemed so... negative. He had, of course, been told many stories of her last husband, the Bastard of Bolton. Until now, he had never truly considered how he might've treated her in bed. She had always seemed to be made of ice and steel, with no place for vulnerability, or fear.

Fear? Was it that? Before he could contemplate this further, the queen's gown fell away, immediately followed by her shift. His mouth suddenly felt very dry, and his cock twitched. Like this, she was perhaps even more beautiful than she'd been when she'd entered the godswood. This beauty wasn't marred by the myriad of scars covering her body.

“I realise I am disfigured”, she said as she walked towards the bed. “I fear you will have to make do.” With that, she climbed onto the bed and got on all fours, her backside turned towards him.

His breath caught in his throat. The sight before him was enticing, yes, and yet this situation was utterly wrong. This wasn't how it should be.

“No”, he rasped, stepping towards the bed and beginning to undo his doublet. It suddenly felt deeply inappropriate that she'd be so bare, and him still dressed. “Turn around.”

He actually saw her shrug and lie on her back from one side of the bed to the other, spreading her legs. “Whichever way you want, my lord husband.” He was deeply conflicted as he shed his doublet and his tunic, his boots and his breeches, remembered his circlet and discarded that as well. Her body in that position appealed to him, of course, but the manner in which she'd essentially surrendered did not.

“What has he _done_ to you?”, he asked as he stood before her, naked and half hard. She looked to the side, eyes transfixed on the headboard. “Please just get it over with”, Sansa said in a thin voice. “I apologise if I displease you.”

Gods. He ran a hand through his hair. This was so wrong, this was never how it went. Normally when he stood before a girl spread out for him like that -

Rickard remembered himself. Bedding women was something he was good at, was it not?

He slowly climbed onto the bed, sitting between her knees. He caressed one perfectly shaped leg with his hand, placed a kiss on one knee, then the other. She didn't react. Then, he bent over her and began kissing her neck, feeling her tense beneath him.

“Please, no”, she whimpered. “Truly, just”, her voice got stronger, “just take me and then leave.”

He shook his head and kissed her mouth before she could ask him again. He kissed her like he kissed girls who'd never done it before, slowly and gently.

Her hand went to his chest and pushed him away, and she glared at him. “Did you not hear me?”, she asked sharply. “That was a command from your queen.”

Her grabbed a fistful of her auburn hair and pressed her forehead to his. Her eyes widened, but he didn't think she seemed scared. “Outside, you are my queen”, he said. “In here, I am your husband. Whichever way I want, didn't you just say that?”

With that, she went limp. Rickard suppressed a sigh. He was going to make her enjoy this, whether she thought she wanted to or not.

He kissed and licked, caressed her nipples and her scars. The first time she let out a small sigh, she covered her face with her hands, but after a while, they went to roaming over the sheets instead. He only touched her sex once her sighs had turned into moans and once she had stopped trying to suppress those. It took him everything he'd ever learned and more patience than he'd ever known to get her close to a climax, and that was when he entered her, wanting to feel her clench around his cock.

As he did, she looked confused, briefly leaving the lust-filled stupor he had so carefully coaxed her into. “What?”, he asked, briefly and absurdly wondering about the Bolton bastard's size.

“Nothing”, she said after a second. He kissed her before he began to move, the first time since the beginning, and this time she let him.

She might not have been a maid, but Rickard liked to believe that he had given Sansa her first climax. After he had spilled his seed and rolled off her, she was thoughtfully looking up at the canopy.

“I did tell you to to get it over with, earlier”, she said. “I believe that this took quite a long time.”

He snorted. “You have your last husband to thank for that. Aren't you glad that I didn't listen?”

A pause. “I don't know”, she then said. “And I did not know that it could just – not hurt. At all.”

That was probably the most positive assessment he'd get from her. For now, Rickard was content that there was at least one area where they could be a normal husband and wife.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Jon coming up last chapter caused a bit of a reaction, and I realise that I probably should've tagged that from the beginning – but here I need some advice because I'm still pretty new to AO3. Should I really use the Jonerys tag if it's not exactly gonna be a happy, loving relationship (considering the fact that he, like, actually murdered her in this story)? Do I tag things like Sansa/Rickard based on the fact that they're married in this, even though Rickard is basically an OC/an aged-down side character mentioned once or twice in the books, and even though they're not actually in a romantic relationship but just a political marriage? And don't these tags sometimes just ruin the suspense to a certain extent?  
> Really, any input is appreciated on this; I don't really know how this works.


	12. Davos III | Yara IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning to our regularly scheduled programming of people just talking to each other.

Davos III 

“Just _look_ at them”, Tyrion said, disgusted, waving his cup around. “Look. They're like fire-ants. Red, unpleasant, and just crawling _everywhere_.”

They were standing on a balcony high on the Red Keep, overlooking the city. “We have a lot of them in Dorne”, Ser Ryon supplied. “They are quite harmless.”

Davos snorted. “I wouldn't say that.”

During the last few weeks, something had happened in King's Landing that even he hadn't seen before. The plethora of preachers who would suddenly appear during any crisis were usually unorganised; just a collection of madmen whose prophecies all contradicted each other.

Now, it was an entirely different matter. Because now, the city was teeming with red priests.

“We have to put an end to this”, Tyrion decided. “I don't know how yet, but I'll work something out.” He emptied his cup, slammed it down on the bannister, then picked it up again to refill it from the low table behind them. “What are they preaching, Ser Ryon?”

The Dornishman sighed. “R'hllor will light our fires for He is the source of all good. The Lord of Light will guide us from the darkness. Strike down your false gods; they are nothing but disguises of the Great Other.” He shrugged. “And so on. The night is dark and full of terrors. You know this.”

“Well, yes.” Tyrion was irritated. “But what else? There must be a reason that the good people of King's Landing have suddenly turned to the red god. They never cared much for him before, and now they're suddenly listening – even after the city's been destroyed with fire.”

“Whatever they're saying, it's nothing good”, Davos said. “Before long, they'll start sacrificing people.”

“They never do this in Dorne”, Ser Ryon remarked. “But I understand your concern, ser. And indeed”, he took a sip of wine himself, “you are quite right that they are saying more than that, my Lord Hand. But unfortunately, I am not quite sure what.”

Tyrion looked at him with disbelief. “What kind of spymaster are you? They're right there.” He pointed downward. “It can't be that difficult.”

Ser Ryon gave him a thin smile. “It had been my understanding that I was only appointed as master of whisperers because you did not believe that the position was needed.”

That almost made Tyrion choke on his drink, and Davos cleared his throat. The man wasn't wrong. “Well, good ser”, Tyrion said, “you must understand that our king's”, he hesitated, “ _abilities_ brought me to the belief that it was indeed a useless position. Nothing personal, of course.”

“Naturally.” Ser Ryon raised his cup in acknowledgement. None of them mentioned that they were increasingly questioning these abilities, but Davos knew that the thought was on everyone's minds. “And I am not entirely useless, my Lord Hand. I have heard reports of what the priests are saying, they are just frustratingly conflicting.” He turned his gaze towards the city beneath them. “They all seem convinced that the burning of the city was a great cleansing. However, some of my spies tell me that they are preaching that King Bran has been sent by R'hllor to guide them from their darkness. Others say that the priests are claiming the opposite. As much as it pains me to say, those reports often imply that you, dear Lord Hand, are some kind of evil force.”

“Of course.” Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Twisted little monkey demon, that sort of thing?”

“I have not heard that specific phrase”, Ser Ryon replied. “Either way, the only thing I know is that I need better spies.”

“Indeed.” As Tyrion finished his cup yet again, Davos considered that he was recently seeing him drink more than in other times. Better times, perhaps.

They were interrupted by sound of men approaching, and soon after, the master of coin stepped onto the balcony. He'd taken to having a handful of his guards following him wherever he went. Davos noticed that Ser Ryon slightly wrinkled his nose.

“Bronn of House Blackwater”, Tyrion said merrily, “Lord of Highgarden. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I've got good news”, Bronn announced, helping himself to a cup of wine. “First of all, what d'you think of this?” He pointed down at himself. His clothing was growing ever more extravagant, and Davos wondered at just how much gold the former sellsword was able to incorporate into his wardrobe.

“You're bathed in splendour, my old friend.” Tyrion sat. “What is this news you are speaking of? Have you worked out how we'll pay for feeding the people of King's Landing and improving the water supply?”

“ _Much_ better”, Bronn promised. “I'm getting married!”

Davos wasn't terribly impressed by the news, and Ser Ryon's didn't seem to be either. Even Tyrion had to feign happiness. “Wonderful”, he said. “Who is the lucky bride?”

“Dyonne Hightower.” Davos thought he heard Ser Ryon make a chocked sound, very quietly. The old nobility was never too happy when one of their own was wed to an upstart. “Six-and-ten, golden hair down to her arse, and tits like you wouldn't believe. It'll be the biggest feast Highgarden has seen in decades.”

“Congratulations are in order, then,” Ser Ryon said without a hint of happiness in his voice. “Am I right in believing that after this feast, the Reach will finally be able to supply King's Landing with sufficient food?”

Bronn groaned. “You all keep going on about that, but it's not as easy as it sounds.” Ser Ryon snorted. “Besides, you heard old Royce. The gold cloaks will get some help from the Vale, and they'll restore order. People were able to find their own food before.”

Tyrion pinched his nose, and Davos suddenly felt like wine, too. The city's state was going from bad to worse, the master of coin wasn't making matters any better, and now red priests were swarming the place. Whatever _that_ meant, he was certain that it wouldn't end well.

 

  

Yara IV 

The Lady Reaper of Pyke was in a good mood as she approached the training grounds, and it only got better when she spotted Gwyneth. She had begun to wear thick, but very form-fitting leathers over her silks. As she trained with one of Yara's men at using daggers, her getup accentuated every graceful movement. A sight for sore eyes.

“Princess!”, Yara called out. Gwyneth looked at her, and the man she was sparring with managed to bring his blunted dagger to her throat. The princess sighed. “Don't distract me like that”, she chided as Yara dismissed the man. “If I can distract you, that's your problem, not mine.”

Gwyneth gave her a look that was difficult to read, and then stretched. Sometimes, Yara wanted to laugh about how much she wanted her.

She tried to not let the stretch fluster her. “I've just been to Lordsport”, she announced. “The first raiders have returned with wood pillaged from Cape Kraken, and haven't encountered any problems. We're also making progress with building ships from your Dornish timber. You can tell your lord father that it's all going to plan.”

“Wonderful.” The princess pointed to the weapons rack behind Yara. “Care to resume our lessons with the axe?”

There wasn't much Yara wanted to do more. Gwyneth had been trained to use a number of weapons, but the axe wasn't among them. In turn, the princess was teaching her to use a whip. It all certainly made both of them better fighters, and it was a great excuse for touching her.

As Yara puts her arms around Gwyneth to show her the perfect axe-throwing posture, she wondered once again at just where their relationship was going. It was widely known that the Dornish liked to bed both men and women, but she didn't know if the princess saw her as purely a friend, or someone she could occasionally flirt with, or if this would go any further.

 _None of it, you desperate fool_. Gwyneth was her father's spy. The Prince of Dorne seemed like a shrewd man; she wouldn't put it beneath him to have sent his daughter to the Iron Islands in order to get close to her, one way or another.

The axe hit the target, although far from the centre. Still, it was an improvement over the princess' first tries. Gwyneth smiled widely, and Yara wanted to kiss her.

Then, she wanted to slap herself for the thought. She should just give herself to the Drowned God and end her misery.

“Queen!”, she heard one of her men shout as he ran towards the practice ground, and wasn't sure if she felt relieved or disappointed at the interruption. “Your uncle's asking for you”, he said, then clarified: “Harlaw, I mean. He's in the Great Keep.” He nodded at Gwyneth. “Said you should come as well.”

The women exchanged a curious glance, then made for Pyke. Rodrick wouldn't send someone to fetch her if it wasn't important, and if he was asking for both of them, he had to have got some kind of news that was relevant for their alliance.

 

They found her uncle in a small audience chamber next to the Great Hall, together with a foreign man. He was tall and thin and certainly Essosi, and dressed as a merchant.

“Your Grace”, the man said and bowed to Yara, “and Princess Gwyneth. It is a great honour to meet you both.” Yara looked at Rodrick, but he just shrugged and pointed at the trader. “I am Nabho, a priest of the Lord of Light.”

“Well met”, she replied, just because she couldn't think of anything else. His kind didn't usually make it to the Iron Islands. Her other uncle, Aeron, wouldn't like this if he knew. “Have you lost your robes, priest?”

“I was advised by Prince Anders to come in disguise.” Ah. What was Anders up to now? Gwyneth didn't seem like she'd known anything about this, even as she took a piece of parchment from the priest. She took a quick look and handed it to Yara, who saw that it was a short note affirming the priest's identity, together with the new Dornish sigil.

“He speaks true”, Yara said to Rodrick, who'd been silently watching their exchange. “What makes the Prince of Dorne send a red priest to the Iron Islands, then?” Saying it out loud made her truly aware of the absurdity of the situation.

“A great truth”, the priest replied, and Gwyneth rolled her eyes and turned to Yara. “If he next claims that my father converted, then you can drown him for forging this note.”

“As much as I wish that were the case”, the priest said, “that is not why I am here. No, I have come here to tell you that the queen lives.”

Rodrick pointed to Yara. “We can see that.”

Nabho nodded in acknowledgement. “Of course, my lord, but I am speaking another queen. The true queen of Westeros, who your land”, he nodded at Gwyneth, “has sworn fealty to, and who you, Your Grace, have forged an alliance with.”

There was a pause as they sought to unpuzzle the meaning of his words. “Are you telling us”, Yara then said, “that Daenerys is alive?”

“Indeed.” Before anyone could tell him that this was impossible, he reached into his pockets. “Queen Daenerys was brought back to life by the grace of the Lord of Light in a temple near Volantis. The High Priestess has not yet informed me of Her Grace's further plans, but I am to give you this.”

As soon as she felt it in her hand, Yara recognised the item he'd given her. “This is one of Drogon's scales”, she told the other two. She'd never forget the sight of him high in the sky above Dragonstone. Gwyneth stretched her hand out, wonder on her face, and Yara passed the scale. Only then did she see the piece of parchment beneath it, but now Gwyneth had it.

The princess studied it carefully. “It's burned, and I think it's written in blood”, she announced. Rodrick shot Yara a nervous glance. “Fire and Blood”, he whispered. “What does it say?”

Gwyneth swallowed. “It is not over”, she read out. “Do not forget. I will not forgive.”

 

“Well, that was interesting”, Yara said after they'd dismissed the priest. He'd left them with the dragon scale and parchment. “What does your father intend to do?”

“I do not know”, Gwyneth said after a brief pause. “If it is true -”

“It must be”, Yara interrupted. “How else do you think they'd get this?” She held up the scale. “I've seen Drogon. I know it's his, and I know that there's only one person in the world who could get it.”

“People have been brought back by the red priests before”, Rodrick remarked. “Beric Dondarrion, and maybe Jon Snow.” Yara spat at hearing that name. “I've read of a few instances where it happened throughout history.”

“So let us assume that Queen Daenerys lives”, Gwyneth decided. “Then it makes no difference for the Iron Islands, of course. She promised you your independence, and you were going to fight alongside Dorne either way. If she now returns to Westeros, that leads to the same, just with a dragon on our side.”

“True enough”, Yara said. “I've got no problem with this. But what about Dorne? I thought your father wanted independence, too.”

The princess considered this. “He does, but only because he will not acknowledge the usurper Brandon. I think if my father was presented with the choice of joining Queen Daenerys and bending the knee, or having Dorne fight her all by ourselves and getting Sunspear turned to ash...” She shook her head. “That is an easy choice to make. The only people we ever bowed to were the Targaryens, and only because of a marriage. Perhaps he could ask her for something similar, as a reward for our loyalty. My sister has two young sons, and I presume she'll eventually have daughters, should she ever take the throne. Such an agreement would be acceptable to Dorne, I believe.”

“There is _one_ problem for us, princess”, Rodrick said, then looked at Yara. “When you allied with her, you promised an end to the Old Way. A few moons ago, you stood in the Great Hall and told the captains that we'd raid half of Westeros.”

“Ah, yes.” She ran a hand through her hair. “That will be a hard sell. But I'd still rather have to listen to their grumbling for a while than be burned alive. We've seen what dragons can do to ships.”

He nodded in approval. “Of course”, Yara continued, “all of this only matters if she'll actually come back. If I were her, I'd go back to Meereen and get more men before that.”

“True”, Gwyneth admitted. “Though she will not need too many if she has both Dorne and the Iron Islands by her side. The rest of Westeros is still reeling, and”, she cleared her throat, “the Unsullied are in Dorne.”

Yara blinked. “Your father's doing?” The princess nodded sheepishly. “And you didn't think of telling me that before?”  
“My father likes to keep his cards close to his chest”, Gwyneth said. “I was not under orders to keep it from you entirely, but rather, to tell you only once it became necessary information. There are too many eyes and ears, even on the Iron Islands.”

“And the Dothraki?”, Rodrick asked, but Gwyneth shook her head. “As far as I am aware, they truly have returned to their Great Grass Sea. My lord father thought they might be more difficult to hide.”

A fair assessment. Yara sighed. “I suppose it doesn't change anything for now. We'll keep building ships, and if Daenerys decides to return, we can tell her we've been getting ready to avenge her and destroy her enemies.” She paused. “And that's actually true.”

 


	13. Cella II | Grey Worm II

Cella II

“Lord, cast your light upon us”, the priestess intoned. “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

A good half of the crowd repeated her words. Watching from the balcony of her room in the brothel, Cella thought that the red priests were surely drawing more and more support.

“For many years, corruption has ruled King's Landing”, the woman proclaimed. “And you, the people, were alone in your suffering. But the Lord of Light has heard you, even though you did not know you were speaking to Him. He hears us all. Kings and soldiers, lords and beggars, ladies and whores.” With that, the priestess looked up at Cella, who was so startled she pricked her finger. As the madam had said, she did sewing when she wasn't with a customer.

“Our Lord who we call R'hllor heard you, and He sent a saviour. He sent you a queen reborn from fire, the Mother of Dragons, who had already broken the chains of those in the east. He sent her to cleanse this city with fire, to rid it off the corruption brought by the usurpers, Baratheon and Lannister alike.”

“All hail Queen Daenerys!”, someone shouted. Sucking her finger, Cella glanced along the street, but didn't see any gold cloaks around. Good; she didn't want this to turn ugly.

“The Dragon Queen struck down the Lannister tyrant and freed you from your chains. The Lord of Light had given her this power Himself, through her dragon. A being made of fire to cast light into the darkness.” As much as Cella wasn't one for religion, she was willing to believe that the dragon had something to do with the red god.

“Drogon!”, someone else exclaimed. “Return and light us the way.”

“But then”, the priestess continued, her voice growing darker. “Then the Great Other, whose forces the rightful queen had just defeated in the North, took hold of those who were sworn to her. He once more spread the darkness of treason, and just below her throne, the Dragon Queen's lover stabbed her in the heart.”

Wails erupted in the crowd. “Traitors!”, some shouted, “Burn them!”, some others. Still, not all of the audience was convinced, but more and more people stopped by to listen every day. “Now, Drogon the great bringer of fire has taken the queen away, and on the throne sits a boy who should be dead, enthralled by the false Northern gods who are nothing but faces of the Great Other.”

“A savage!”, a woman screamed. “A warg!”, shouted someone else.

“His Hand is the twisted demon that has ruled you once before, a true creature of the Other, who deceived and betrayed your rightful queen. A Lannister, who was in secret working for his sister.”

“Oh Lord of Light, deliver us!”, Cella heard. From the little that she knew about the goings-on among the high lords and ladies, she had long ago decided that the Lannisters might be the worst of them all. The Tyrells had seemed fine.

“But hope is not lost, my dear friends”, the priestess continued. “We are now in the night, and we are being ruled by the terrors. But R'hllor will bring forth the saviour once more, and then we shall see the light again.”

“Hey, you!” Cella turned around, face-to-face with the madam. “I've been calling you for ages. Stop listening to the preacher and get ready, a customer's here, and this time it's the master of coin himself.” She gestured downwards at the crowd. “Came in all quietly through the back door. You can guess why.”

 

 

Grey Worm II

The Dornish soldiers weren't bad.

They weren't great, either, but perhaps he just had high standards. Unsullied were trained from the age of five, and most of the Dornish were not. They also weren't cut, or made to train until they died, and they didn't have to kill any infants. That was of course much better, although Grey Worm wasn't always sure how he was meant to act when they were telling bawdy jokes or getting drunk.

Like a large portion of the Unsullied, he'd been quartered with the Yronwood soldiers, some of which had replaced them on their fleet. Now, they had returned, and he had been put in charge of their training with the short-sword and spear.

“Enough for today”, he announced, and could tell the Dornishmen were relieved. They truly had no idea for how long he had had to train as a boy. “Go clean yourselves. Tomorrow, we start at dawn.”

A groan went around, as if he hadn't said the same thing every other night. He left the practice grounds for the barracks, longing for the washbasin that awaited him. Keeping clean was important to the Unsullied, and he'd decided that daily washing was one of the few parts of his original training that would do the Dornish soldiers no harm.

His clothing still felt unfamiliar. Some of his brothers had complained about it, too. The princess had said that they could hardly remain undetected if they still wore their uniforms, and that was certainly true, but after so many years, wearing anything else was strange.

Before he could even make it out of the practice grounds, he was approached by a guard. The princess required him in her solar.

Perhaps their time was drawing near? Grey Worm could only hope so. He didn't mind Yronwood; it wasn't that cold, and the Dornish did not appear as set against him and his brothers as the other Westerosi. Training was fine, too. But every night, he saw Missandei's head leave her body, and his queen in Drogon's claws as he soared towards the sky. If he could kill at least Tyrion, he might get to rest.

“Ser Grey”, Princess Ynys greeted him as he entered her solar, and he gave a short bow. “Please, sit. I have received word from my father.” She held up a parchment in her hand. It didn't look like a raven scroll; Prince Anders must've sent a rider. “I still cannot quite believe what I have just read, but it must be true. It is news that you will be most interested in.”

Feeling quite awkward, he lowered himself onto one of the low, cushion-covered couches. The princess regarded him curiously. “Are you able to read the Common Tongue?”

“Not much.” She looked back down on the parchment. “Then you will have to hear it from me, ser.” He still hadn't been able to get anyone here to not call him that.

Ynys straightened her back, brushed one of her dark curls out of her face. “It appears”, she said slowly, “that Drogon took Queen Daenerys' body to Volantis. There, he brought her to a red temple.”

That was good to know. “They gave her a true burial?”

“Well, no, they...” The princess shook her head, quickly read the letter again. “They, and I cannot _believe_ that I am saying this”, she hesitated for another moment, “they brought her back to life.”

The world shifted under him. “That cannot be.”

Ynys threw up her hands. “I find this as incredible as you, ser. But I know the man my lord father sent with this message, and I know that it is from him, and I _know_ that he would not tell me, or believe it, if he was not sure.” She held the parchment out to him. “See if you can find any meaning in these words, ser.”

He looked down on the writing, but couldn't make out much. Queen Daenerys, it said somewhere, and dragon, and Volantis, and red. But something being written down didn't make it true, or the message even genuine. “You lie”, he decided. “You do not need to. You do not need to tell me stories like this to make the Unsullied stay on your side.”

Princess Ynys froze, taken aback. “That is not my intention”, she said. “I understand that this is difficult to believe, but please do not accuse me of such things.” She gestured back towards the parchment. “My lord father was told of this by a red priest sent by the High Priestess of Volantis, a woman named Kinvara.”

Grey Worm blinked. “She was in Meereen”, he had to admit. “Where is the priest she sent now?”

“On the Iron Islands, to inform Queen Yara. When he arrived on Sunspear, he did not have any information about the queen's plans, but my father expects to hear from the red priests once there are any news.” She paused. “Of course, Dorne will support Her Grace in whichever action she chooses to to take. She is still our queen. Should she not return to Westeros, we will arrange for a way for you and your men to join her, should you so wish.”

He was frozen in place, and they sat there in silence for a moment, looking at each other as they both tried to read the other. “I want to believe it”, he said finally. “But if it is true, then I have to tell my brothers. And if I tell them and it is not true, they will never forgive me.”

“Naturally.” The princess seemed deep in thought, and he wasn't sure if he should leave or wait for dismissal. “Tell me, Ser Grey”, she then said, “do you think it could be? I have never met the queen; I have never even seen her. But I have heard many stories. Could it be true?”

Could it? She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons and the Breaker of Chains. “If anyone can come back from the dead, then her.”

Returning to the barracks, Grey Worm briefly allowed himself to believe. He imagined seeing her on Drogon's back, landing in the Dornish sand, him and the other Unsullied raising their spears. She would greet him and he could report to her what they had done since her murder -

With a sickening feeling in his stomach, he realised just what they'd done. First, they hadn't been able to protect her from one single man with a dagger; then, they hadn't even laid a scratch on any of the traitors. His fantasy changed, and now he was on his knees before her, confessing to his failures. Could he really stand to look her in the eye after everything he hadn't done?

He wasn't worthy to serve her again, that much was clear. But he'd still need to tell her everything.

With that thought, he understood that he already believed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that not every chapter will contain someone finding out that Dany lives.


	14. Daenerys II

“Mhysa!”, the first shouts rang out as Drogon soared over Meereen. “Mhysa! Mhysa!”

Looking downwards, Daenerys saw that the streets of the city were filling with ever-larger crowds, and that the Targaryen banner still hung from the Great Pyramid. As she flew low, she could see some of the Unsullied she'd left in the city dropping to their knees, could see her freedmen staring up at her in awe. Women pointed at her smiling as they spoke to small children, shopkeepers dropped their wares to raise their hands to her; people all over the city cheered her return.

Daenerys gave them a wide smile and waved, satisfied with her reception. This was how the people of King's Landing would've greeted her, she thought, if if weren't for Cersei's machinations and her traitorous advisors. She made Drogon take her to the Great Pyramid, landing on its top with a resounding thud.

The Council governing Meereen was spilling out onto the balcony, kneeling as she climbed off her dragon. “I knew it couldn't be!”, she heard one say. “I knew it was true!”, said another.

In front of all of them, head not bowed but staring up at her with an adoring grin, was Daario Naharis. “My queen”, he said, voice dripping with emotion, and then slowly shook his head, mouth open.

She waited a moment, surveying the Council. There were Toqqo zo Ghazeen and Nezzha, a former master and a former learned slave she'd appointed to jointly oversee the books. Marqaz mo Kandaq and Ellrano, who were responsible for diplomacy and trade. Horreah zo Pahl and Tarrho, tasked with building and infrastructure. Daario and the Unsullied Strong Sword, in charge of Meereen's city guard and army.

“Rise”, she said, and they did. Without another word, Daenerys went inside the pyramid, closely followed by the Council.

“My queen”, Daario said again from behind her. “We have heard so many stories. Some said you died when fighting an army of dead men. Others that you took the Sunset Kingdoms and ruled. We heard that you were killed by traitors. We heard that the red priests brought you back to life.”

Once inside the chamber, Daenerys turned to them. “Some of that is true”, she said. “I will tell you what happened, and what we must do next.” Then she looked down on herself and realised the state she was in. She hadn't had the chance to clean up since she'd died. “But first, I need a bath and a meal.”

That was easy enough to arrange. After she'd had both and a bit of rest and someone had found one of her old gowns, she called on the Council to tell her of the state of the city. Meereen was doing well, overall, and peace reigned in the Bay of Dragons – while slavery remained outlawed. They had begun to export silk, like Kinvara had told her, and found new methods to improve irrigation and grow better grapes for wine. The olive trees would still take time to regrow, but the salt and copper mines were back on track, and fish in the bay had become plentiful again. There'd been a small outbreak of disease a few moons ago, but it hadn't taken many. Pickpockets remained a problem, but violence was rare.

Still, they had to admit, the city somehow found itself in debt. That was curious. On the other hand, Meereen entertained good relations with Astapor and Yunkai, who considered themselves not directly under Daenerys' rule, but indebted to her. Meereen's armed forces had been built up quite a lot, mostly at Daario's insistence and against the wishes of some in the Council. So far, it all sounded quite good.

“Find me the highest-ranking red priest in the city and bring them to the audience chamber”, she commanded. “Send messengers to Astapor and Yunkai. Do not mention my return, but do tell them we are in need of soldiers willing to go on a long journey, and ships to go along with them. We can pay the cities so they can hire sellswords to protect them in the meantime.”

“Your Radiance”, Marqaz mo Kandaq interjected, “I do not believe that we are able to pay, for now.”

“We are.” She had taken the bag she'd tied to Drogo, and reached inside to pull out just a few of her treasures. The Council exchanged curious glances, but she did not need to tell everyone where she'd been. “Daario, I would have a word while we await the red priest.”

 

He was eager to hear her story, and Daenerys found herself appreciating the fondness and admiration he'd always shown her. Leaving him in Meereen had been Tyrion's idea, of course. She still wasn't sure if he'd been a traitor from the very beginning, or just widely incompetent.

“What _happened_?”, he asked as the rest of the Council had left, and Daenerys sunk down into a couch. Then, she took a deep breath and told him everything, beginning at her arrival on Dragonstone.

“King's Landing fell quickly, and they rang the bells of surrender”, she said as she got to that part, after the painful recounting of Missandei's death and Varys' treason. “Tyrion had told me to stop there.” She shook her head. “Tyrion had also been wrong about everything, and Cersei had outwitted him at every step – or perhaps they had been working together the whole time. I knew there had to be some other trick she had, so I burned half the city while my soldiers sacked the rest.”

Daario nodded matter-of-factly. “That's the way of war. A wise choice.”

Truly, what had ever compelled her to listen to the Imp? Telling him the next part of the story was the most painful; the one where her nephew, lover, and father of her child kissed her only to plunge a dagger into her heart. After that, she needed to interrupt herself for a while as Daario vented his rage, pacing about the room as he was devising increasingly creative ways to kill Jon. While that couldn't be allowed to happen, Daenerys appreciated the sentiment. Maybe she should take him to bed tonight.

After he'd calmed down, she finally got to Volantis, Valyria, and her plans to retake what was hers.

Daario got on his knees again, first bowing his head, then looking to her for permission before briefly resting his forehead on her knees. “Please”, he said. “I like Meereen, and I think I've done well here, but please take me with you this time. I'm not asking to be your lover again, though I can be, no matter if you want me once or a hundred times.” He looked up at her. “But I am asking to be allowed to fight for you when you take your revenge. You know I'm good at fighting, and you know I won't betray you.”

She smiled fondly and cupped his cheek. “I should have taken you with me the first time. You have always counselled me to be swift and ruthless, and if you had been there on Dragonstone, you would have told me to march straight to King's Landing and burn the Red Keep with Cersei in it.” He nodded. “Missandei would still be alive then, and maybe even Jorah if we had gone up north with all the armies of the Seven Kingdoms.” She knew she would've had to fight the army of the dead either way. “You will join me this time.”

He sighed in relief and rested his head against her legs once more. Daenerys briefly ran her fingers through his hair, but then remembered the red priest. They'd probably been waiting for quite a while at this point, so she grabbed one of her Valyrian crowns and made for the audience chamber.

The priest turned out to be a Ghiscari woman who bowed deeply and spoke of her admiration for the one who was promised. Kinvara had assured her that the red priests would be loyal, and that they had a way of communicating through the flames. Daenerys instructed her to inform the High Priestess of her arrival in Meereen and find out what her envoys had accomplished in Westeros so far, and then continued with her work.

 

Over the next few weeks, she showed herself to the people of the city, organised her new fleet and army, and investigated Meereen's debt – it seemed indeed very strange that such a flourishing city would be in such deep financial trouble. Daenerys had to interrupt this work for several days as reports reached them that the Dothraki had found their way back to the Great Grass Sea.

She wouldn't make them cross the poison water again, but they could still be of use. Riding out on Drogon and catching the giant khalasar just before it could split once more, it wasn't difficult to re-establish herself as their supreme khaleesi. Last time, she'd come out of the burning temple of the dosh khaleen unscathed; this time, she'd returned from the dead. She gave orders that they might return to their old ways of pillaging the lands and even fighting each other, but that they would destroy anyone who threatened to harm the Bay of Dragons. In Vaes Dothrak, she heard, the temple would be rebuilt to worship the silver-haired khal of khals who rode the greatest mount of all.

After Valyria, this all made perfect sense to Daenerys. The Ghiscari and the Dothraki bowed to the blood of the dragon, as they should, and as the Westerosi had for centuries. Soon, they too would kneel once more.

 

As she spent many a night studying the books of Meereen, it became increasingly clear that the problem of its debt lay not in a lack of trade or mismanagement of funds, but in outright treachery. Both Nezzha and Toqqo zo Ghazeen had used their positions to enrich themselves.

“Who would have thought?”, she asked Daario. “I appointed a former master and a freed slave to each position to watch each other, counting on their mistrust. Instead, I have been too successful in bringing them together, it seems.”

“You should burn them”, he said, and she smiled. “I know. I will.”

After she had stood on a great square and had spoken of their crimes, the people of Meereen called for the traitors' blood. As Drogon's flames engulfed them and silenced their pleas for mercy, Daenerys thought that direct dragonfire was a quick death indeed. It wouldn't do for her enemies in Westeros.

Their wealth was seized, and the queen contributed a few of her Valyrian treasures to the city's coffers, as well as to the payment for Astapor and Yunkai. She appointed new bookkeepers and sternly reminded the Council of the consequences of treason, as if Nezzha and zo Ghazeen's remains were not still smouldering in the heart of the city.

“Fire is the greatest death of all”, the red priestess opined after Daenerys had called her back to the Great Pyramid. “The Lord of Light is surely pleased.”

“Wonderfull.” She didn't truly care what the red god thought, for she was quite sure that he was but a mask for the gods of Valyria. They would have approved, however. “What news have you for me?”

Good news, as it turned out. Dorne and the Iron Islands had both been informed of her resurrection, and had sworn to honour their vows. What was even better, the Unsullied were in Dorne, hidden by its new prince. It also appeared that the new Usurper's reign was going quite badly, while red priests were taking hold of King's Landing and Bran's own powers seemed more constrained than many had expected. The North was experiencing such a harsh winter that no-one could be quite sure what was going on, isolated as it was.

The thought of Sansa freezing alone in Winterfell after getting what she'd wished for made Daenerys quite gleeful, as did the idea of Tyrion sitting in the ruins of the Red Keep and wringing his hands as the city spiralled out of control. This was what they'd wanted, and now they had to bear the consequences. She just hoped that Jon – Aegon, rather – was still alive up at the Wall. If he died, that would certainly complicate her plans.

Daenerys told the priestess her orders for her Westerosi allies, and then decided to get a good night's sleep. It would be a long journey back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I apparently need to say this: I don't mean to justify Dany burning King's Landing. I'm merely showing how I think Daario would react, given the fact that his advice usually boils down to “just kill everyone”.


	15. Wolkan III | Yara V | Davos IV

Wolkan III

As Wolkan entered the queen's solar to tell her about the raven he'd just received, he found her already halfway towards the door.

“Ah, maester”, she said. “I was just about to look for you.”

“And I for you, Your Grace.” She could've guessed that much, he supposed. “How may I serve?”

“That can wait.” She bid him to sit, eyeing the parchment in his hand. “There has been news?”

“Not from those we had been hoping for, I fear.” He handed her the parchment, sealed with the sigil of the Flints. They'd both have preferred a message from King's Landing, Riverrun, or the Citadel, but none of their ravens or riders had been answered. The weather had let up a bit since the day of the royal wedding; enough for a message from the North to come through, but they were still isolated from the rest of Westeros.

Frowning, the queen broke the seal and read the message. “Ironborn”, she said with a sigh. “Lord Flint is writing of reports that they have been pillaging wood from Cape Kraken.”

“To rebuild their fleet, presumably”, he said, and the queen nodded. “Indeed. If they had asked, I assume Lord Flint would have happily sold it to them, but here we are.” She turned the scroll in her fingers. “This is a problem, of course. I would say we should send a raven to King's Landing to inform Bran and ask him to keep his subjects in line, but...” She trailed off. “Besides, I would think that he would know, seeing as he is supposed to know everything.”

She sounded bitter, and Wolkan wasn't surprised. King Bran also had to know that the North needed help to survive the winter, and yet none had come. “What can we do?”, she asked. “We cannot attack them. Even if we had the strength to do so and circumstances permitted it, that would mean an attack on the Six Kingdoms. In truth, this is an attack by the Six Kingdoms on the North, though I doubt that any of the rest had anything to do with this.”

Wolkan was as stumped as the queen. There wasn't anything they could do for now. “Did Lord Flint indicate that he was sending any men?”, he asked.

She looked at the message. “He has not, at least not yet, as these are just unconfirmed reports. I will bid him to investigate the issue further, and should it remain a problem, we must send men to support him.” The queen shook her head. “If we have any, that is, and if the weather allows for them to reach the Cape before they freeze to death. But the south can't blame us for protecting our lands.”

That much was true. “A wise course of action, Your Grace. What was it that you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Ah. Yes.” She appeared as uncomfortable as the time they'd discussed her possible infertility. “I have recently felt quite ill in the morning, and tired, and strangely warm.” She paused, while he could already imagine where this was going. “I would attribute this to my moon blood, but it is not coming, and the one before never came either.”

“Well, then”, he said. “You do not need me to tell you that this means you are likely with child, Your Grace.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her hands, still holding the parchment. “In truth, I was merely looking for confirmation. Is there any way to know for certain?”

If there had been, Wolkan was sure that the world would be a different place. Fewer bastards, anyway, so early that moon tea could still be safely drunk. “Unfortunately not, despite the Citadel's best efforts. But having missed your moon blood twice would indicate a high likelihood.”

“Good.” She almost smiled. “I trust that you will use all your expertise to guide me through this pregnancy then, maester. Of course, you succeeded with Lady Walda.”

He nodded. He'd brought a healthy child into the world before, although only this one. And then he'd made the ridiculous mistake of telling Lord Bolton right in front of Ramsay.

“It is absolutely crucial that I have an heir, and that I survive childbirth”, the queen continued, as if he didn't know that. “Unless Arya suddenly returns, my only heir is Bran. Should both I and the child die, the North returns to being ruled by King's Landing. If I died but the child lived, I would not want its father to be regent.”

“An understandable concern, Your Grace”, Wolkan said. Rickard was a fine enough consort in that he didn't get in the way, but that would not make him a good ruler. “For want of an alternative, the regency shall be a council composed of Rickard, you, Edwin Snow, Ser Hallis, and Marsh”, she said before he could ask who else she would suggest. “I will write a royal decree today. But I'd much rather you kept me alive.”

He bowed his head. “I will do my best.” In all fairness, there wasn't really anyone else around who could govern, which was precisely the reason that the queen had decided to get married so quickly after taking power. She slowly shook her head. “If I could go back to that day in King's Landing, I would slap Arya in the face and shout at her until she understood that she could not just _leave_ like that. I do not think she would have made the best ruler, but at least she is a Stark.” She scoffed. “West of Westeros. Who cares?”

With that, she stood, and he did the same. “I will write a letter to Lord Flint. In the meantime, you may inform my lord husband, and let him know that I do not require his presence in my bedchamber any longer.”

Wolkan turned before she could see him raise his eyebrows. How would Rickard take _that_?

 

He'd figured he'd probably find the king consort in the semi-damaged hall in the First Keep that had become a sort of improvised practice grounds, and he did. There really wasn't much for him to do except for sparring, drinking with the three spurned suitors who still hadn't been able to return home, and bedding the queen. Wolkan couldn't imagine he'd be happy that this part was over, at least for now.

“Your Grace!”, Wolkan called out, and the man interrupted his sparring. “A word in private, if you please.”

The king consort followed him into a small anteroom that had almost entirely survived the numerous attacks Winterfell had seen in the last years. “What is it, maester?”

“I have the most wonderful news, Your Grace. We are almost certain that the queen is with child.”

A grin spread across Rickard's face. “How far along is she?”

How did these people expect him to know everything? “That is difficult to say, but I would guess that conception took place on or shortly after your wedding night.”

Rickard was delighted. “I knew it!”, he said. “All she needed was a real man to get a child on her, not that deranged bastard.”

Wolkan had been wondering about how exactly things were going in the royal bedchamber. The queen's unchanged disposition implied that Rickard treated her far better than Ramsay had, but her wish to end marital relations during her pregnancy indicated that she still wasn't too enthusiastic about the act.

“The Lady Catelyn bore five healthy children”, Wolkan remarked, “and Lord Eddard was one of four. I am quite optimistic about Her Grace's ability to produce heirs.”

Rickard nodded along contently. “Very well, maester.” Then he frowned. “But how come my lady wife didn't bring me these joyous news herself?”

“I fear the queen is very busy.” That wasn't why, of course, and Wolkan resented the fact that she'd sent him to transmit the next part. “Further, Her Grace has instructed me to inform you that she will no longer require your company during the night.”

The king's face fell. “Is that so?” He slowly shook his head. “She is a strange one, is she not? Every night, I fuck her so well she forgets she's the queen. Most women would appreciate that.” If he hadn't served the Boltons before, Wolkan probably would've been scandalised. “But I suppose I have _done my duty_ , for now. Say, maester, how would Sansa feel about me bedding every serving wench in this castle?”

Was he planning to make her jealous? “You would do well not to dishonour the queen by fathering bastards, Your Grace”, he advised.

Rickard patted his shoulder. “That is what your moon tea is for, Wolkan. But my lady wife must understand that a man has needs, even when she thinks she does not.”

With that, he returned to sparring, and doing so quite aggressively. Wolkan made for the glass gardens to check on the herbs needed for moon tea, expecting that there would soon be an increased demand.

 

 

Yara V

“Remember”, Yara told the captains as they were standing at the harbour, “you are not to be seen as a fleet, and you will not behave like one. You can pretend to be foreign merchants or ironborn explorers, but don't sail together.”

They had only just started rebuilding their fleet, and already, it was needed. For a very long journey, too; one Yara had her own experience with. Too bad she couldn't go this time.

“Once you get to Meereen, the Dragon Queen will tell you where to take her soldiers”, she continued. “Most of you will come back here, others will go to Dorne or Dragonstone first.”

“Who even rules Dragonstone?”, one of the Goodbrother sons asked. “No-one”, Gwyneth replied from where she stood behind Yara. “They considered razing it to the ground, but decided it was too much work. It's just standing there empty.”

“With Dragonstone, Dorne, and the Iron Islands, we'll be able to attack from three sides”, Yara explained. “Together, we have many more soldiers than the North and the other Kingdoms combined. And a dragon. But until we're ready to strike, we'll try to stay unnoticed. Be subtle.”

She could practically _feel_ Gwyn smirk, and had to admit to herself that subtlety wasn't what the ironborn were known for. But then again, they weren't complete strangers to stealth either.

She turned to the senior ironborn lords, who wouldn't be making the long journey, but still had their use. “Return to the shores of the North. Keep pillaging wood, but keep an eye out for any resistance.” After the last trip, Lord Drumm had told her that he was certain they'd been noticed. “If the weather improves, they'll eventually send people out to protect their shores. If they do, fight them. I'd assume that they'll have told King's Landing by now, so I'll see if I hear from the Usurper.”

“And what if you do?”, Saltcliffe asked. Yara shrugged. “Sorry, Your Grace, they acted against my orders. I'll chop off their hands for stealing and send them to Lord Flint.” Seeing the men's frowns, she shook her head impatiently. “Of course I won't do that, but that's what I'll tell him. As per our sources”, she pointed towards Gwyneth, “there's reason to think that the all-knowing king actually doesn't know that much at all, being far away from his gods.” That reminded her of something. “Also, should you encounter any weirwoods in the Northern forests, burn or fell them. The fewer of those are around, the better.”

“And you?”, Drumm challenged her. “Will you sail with us or stay on Pyke with your salt wife?”

Gwyneth snorted, and Yara could barely suppress a grin. “There's nothing I want to do more than get on a ship and maybe murder some northerners”, Yara responded, although there actually was exactly one thing she wanted more than even that. “You know that. But I need to stay here to keep an eye on everything and make sure you lot don't ruin it all.”

With that, she sent them off, to the North and to Meereen; two journeys of very different lengths. As they stood and watched the ships sail; a fleet that shouldn't be one, Gwyn took her hand.

“Your salt wife”, she repeated. “Just wait until my father hears of _that._ He would not be pleased.”

“It's not a bad life.” Yara took the princess by the waist and pulled her closer. Their relationship had progressed quite a bit ever since she'd decided that she could bed her even if she was a spy. “My uncle the Damphair would rather die than perform the rites for two women, but we could find some other priest we could intimidate into doing it.”

Gwyneth smiled and gave Yara a kiss that was far too short. “I am tempted. But I _will_ have to rule Yronwood one day, and marry some second son who won't inherit.”

“A shame.” Yara kissed both her cheeks, then pulled out of their embrace. “I'll have to find some kind of husband as well, sooner or later, or there won't be any Greyjoys left. But you can be my unofficial salt wife, and I'll be your paramour.” Funny how both their lands had such positions, even though being a paramour sounded much more pleasant than being a salt wife.

They made their way to the inn, where the red priest was still staying under the guise of a merchant who was waiting for his ship to be repaired. As it turned out, the priests had a way of communicating with one another that was much faster than ravens, and could not be intercepted.

Yara only hoped that Daenerys was taking advantage of the faith's resources and belief in her, instead of having become a follower of the Lord of Light herself. It would be a headache if she suddenly turned up and demanded conversion from everyone.

Or perhaps, the red priests were playing them all for fools. Either way, it was too late to go back now.

 

 

Davos IV

There'd been a surprise at today's small council meeting. Instead of only asking about Drogon and expressing his growing anxiety regarding the dragon, the king actually had something else to say.

“I have seen the North”, he announced, tone as neutral as always. “My sister has got married to Rickard Ryswell.”

Tyrion raised his cup. “May their marriage be blessed by the old gods and the new, and may Sansa find more happiness than she had with me.” He took a sip. “Or the Bolton bastard.”

King Bran nodded slowly. “It appears she already is with child. House Stark will continue.” He sounded uncharacteristically satisfied with that. Davos wished he'd care for anything else. “The North needs food, however”, the king continued. “They still have a long winter ahead of them. Lord Bronn?”

The former sellsword shrugged. “I'm happy for your sister, but we don't even have enough food for ourselves. Why do we need to help another kingdom?”

Bran fixed his disquieting stare on him. “I am of the North. We will not let them starve.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace”, Lord Royce said, “and with all the admiration I hold for Queen Sansa – the North is no longer part of this realm. We need to feed our own people first.”

“Perhaps we would be able to do at least that”, Ser Ryon said, “if the master of coin hadn't wasted half the wealth of the Reach on his wedding feast. My good-father is sending supplies even though Dorne does not have nearly the same amount of resources -”

“It's my money”, Lord Bronn said. “I'm trying to get the Crown's finances back on track, but it's all very complicated, and the Iron Bank doesn't seem to like us. Besides”, he too had a sip of wine, “it was a good wedding.”

“The people are starving”, Davos cut in, unable to hold back. “I know I've been going on about this forever, but it's getting worse. There's no food, there's hardly any work, and more than half the city seems to follow the red god now.”

Ser Edmund cleared his throat. “As much as it pains me to say it, especially as they keep insulting our gods”, he nodded towards the king, “the red priests have brought a certain amount of order back to the city. At least crime has decreased -”

“It shouldn't be those _priests_ who take care of that”, Lord Royce said. “But you, ser, the master of laws. How have you not found _any_ use for the knights of the Vale?”

“Priests!”, Tyrion suddenly exclaimed. “Yes, of course. Your Grace, I beg you once again, you _must_ reconvene the Most Devout to elect a new High Septon, and rebuild the Sept of Baelor. It could be the Sept of Bran, instead. If the septons only had a real presence in King's Landing again, the people would turn away from the foreign god -”

“I do not follow the Seven”, the king replied, then glanced at Podrick, who'd been dutifully standing behind him. The boy nodded, and wheeled him out of the chamber.

“I need to go into the city”, Tyrion announced, but Ser Brienne resolutely shook her head. “You cannot. You are too recognisable, and even the kingsguard could not protect you against those crowds.”

Before Tyrion could protest, Grand Maester Tarly cut in. “I believe you are right about the faith, my Lord Hand. If you please, I will write to the Citadel and see what Oldtown -”

“Ah yes, write to the _Citadel_ ”, Bronn interrupted him. “That's the only thing you're good at. Now I'm just an upstart with no education, but I always thought the Grand Maester should at least be a maester.”

Offended, Sam pointed at him. “Well _I_ always thought the master of coin should have knowledge of finance.” Davos saw a small smile on Ser Ryon's face. The man's disdain for Bronn had never been hidden well.

Lord Royce gave a deep sigh. “All of this would be much easier if we could convince the king to care. I do hate to say this, but we cannot merely preoccupy ourselves with the North and a missing dragon.” Murmurs of agreement went through the room.

“We cannot blame the _king_ , my lord”, Tyrion said. “We all need to get better at doing our own tasks. The king is perfect for his role.”

“Do you truly believe that, my Lord Hand, or do you purely say this because you are the one who chose him?” Tyrion made to reply, but Royce raised his hand. “I was there, my lord. You could have suggested anyone at that moment and we would have accepted, presented as we were with a complete lack of options.”

“Do not do the Hand a disservice, my lord”, Ser Ryon said. “He had good reason to believe that His Grace would make a formidable king, and he still can be. His reign is young.”

“It won't be getting much older if we keep going on like this.” Davos knew these were harsh words, but they needed to hear the truth. “I don't know what we have to do better than any of you do, but I know that something needs to be done or the people will storm the Red Keep and burn us all in sacrifice to the Lord of Light. I'm not exaggerating.”

The councillors exchanged uncomfortable looks. “Well, on that cheerful note”, said Tyrion, “it appears that at least the rest of the realm is doing alright.” Everyone nodded or shrugged, and he looked around the table. “I am aware that we do not have a representative of the Iron Islands on this council, but does anyone know how they are doing? Rebuilding their fleet, perhaps? We could use more ships, even if Ser Davos is having more success than any of the rest of us.”

Too much, he sometimes thought. Davos would rather the money were spent on something else, but Tyrion kept saying that they needed to trade. “Indeed, my Lord Hand”, Ser Ryon said. “My good-father the Prince of Dorne has sold the Iron Islands a good amount of timber for this purpose.”

“Wonderful”, Tyrion replied, without any joy. “I am glad that every other part of the Six Kingdoms seems in good shape. Should the people of King's Landing decide to riot, we'll have many other places to flee to.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of what I consider the first part of this story. The next chapter will be set after a time jump of a few months, and then things will start actually happening.


	16. Anders III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, there's a bit of a time jump now. I'm keeping times intentionally vague because I can't be bothered with figuring out how long travel is actually supposed to take, but then Sansa's pregnancy does force a pretty specific timeframe, so let's just say it's been about 7 months since the last chapter.

Once again, the Prince of Dorne and his heir stood at the mouth of the Blueblood in the middle of the night. This time, they were accompanied by Grey Worm.

Smuggling an army into Westeros wasn't an easy task, of course, but Anders liked to think that he'd done a good job of it thus far. A combination of his ships, parts of the rebuilt iron fleet, and vessels from the Bay of Dragons had brought the queen's new soldiers onto the continent in a steady drip. One supposed Myrish trader here, a Lorathi galley seeking refuge from the Stepstones' pirates there, ships with black sails landing on Dragonstone at night.

Concealing them was another problem. It was easiest in Dorne, with its vast desert and relatively large Essosi population. On Dragonstone, there was no-one to spot them, although they had reportedly needed to get rid of some smugglers. The Iron Islands were a whole other matter, but at least they had always been quite isolated from the rest.

The biggest challenge had been the dragon, though they were lucky the beast was black and able to travel long distances more quickly than anything else. According to what the red priests had told him, Drogon had been flying very high in the sky, and only at night, while he would hide as well as was possible at daytime – in caves, or on small abandoned islands in the middle of the Narrow Sea. Grey Worm had assured them it was quite doable.

Tonight, after many months of planning, logistics, and the slow but steady arrival of the queen's army, it was time. Daenerys Targaryen herself would arrive, as would her dragon. Anders couldn't help but be nervous, and he knew Ynys felt the same. If he wasn't wrong, however, Grey Worm was in a worse state than both of them – as far as the man ever showed any emotion.

“Is it true that Her Grace is the most beautiful woman in the world?”, Ynys asked as they watched men descend from a black-sailed ship.

“Many say so”, the Unsullied replied. “But her beauty does not matter. She is Stormborn, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, and the Breaker of Chains.” He paused for a heartbeat. “They are not just words. Think about what they mean.”

That, Anders had. He had done a lot of thinking. And once word had reached him that the queen had returned to Meereen, was building another army, and was set on retaking Westeros, he'd realised that there was really only one way for Dorne to act that wouldn't result in Sunspear being turned to ash.

_It is not over. Do not forget. I will not forgive._

“Can you spot her?” Ynys was squinting towards the figures coming towards them on a small boat. None of them looked like a woman.

“She is not on the ship”, Grey Worm said, as if that was obvious. “She is on Drogon.” He looked towards the starless sky, where nothing seemed unusual at all. The fact that the beast could be just above them unsettled Anders. “She will land when it is time.”

He exchanged a glance with Ynys. There was something unworldly about it all; about the idea that the queen would appear out of the sky at her own leisure instead of having to climb off a ship like everyone else.

When he had been but a boy and Aerys had still reigned, his maester had once told Anders that the Targaryens were sometimes seen as more gods than men. The Mad King had been a vengeful god in that case, though Rhaegar had appeared a good man when Anders had travelled to his wedding with Princess Elia. Reports on Daenerys had been mixed.

His thoughts were interrupted when a man approached him from the first boat. He looked like he could be Dornish, but Anders knew that he wasn't one of his men. From some Free City, most likely.

“Daario”, Grey Worm suddenly said, sounding surprised, and the man gave a good-natured smile. _“Torgo Nudho._ ” With a glance at Anders and Ynys, he switched into the Common Tongue. “It is good to see you again, old friend.” Then his face darkened. “Our queen told me about Missandei. I'm very sorry. She was the best of us.”

Grey Worm remained silent for a moment, then turned to them. “This is Daario Naharis, a captain of the Second Sons.”

“Formerly”, Naharis corrected. “The Second Sons are no more. We are now a regular part of the queen's army.”

Ah. Anders had heard about the mysterious disbanding of the sellsword company. “This is Anders of House Yronwood, Prince of Dorne.” Grey Worm did not seem too comfortable making the formal introductions. “And Princess Ynys, his heir.”

Naharis bowed. “An honour to meet you. The queen will be with us shortly.”

As they waited and watched more soldiers come to shore, the men fell into a conversation in bastard Valyrian. Anders could understand High Valyrian well enough, but this was more difficult to follow. From what he could surmise, they were speaking of the state of Meereen.

After what felt like an eternity, they heard the distant flap of wings, high above them. Naharis' mouth spread into a wide smile, but Grey Worm looked at least mildly terrified. Anders could tell that Ynys was nervous, and his own heart started to beat faster as his eyes searched the sky.

As he began to be able to make out a vague shape, he thought that the dragon was startlingly close. Then, the prince realised that Drogon was still high above – he was just that enormous.

The dragon descended in circles, its giant black body ruling all the sky above them. The movement of his wings caused its own wind, and the sand at their feet began to fly up in the air. It did not shriek nor blow flame, which Anders was grateful for, as this surely would've got the attention of at least half of Dorne.

When the beast finally landed, the ground shook. Far up on her colossal mount, he could see the famed silver head of the Dragon Queen.

Daenerys easily stepped down the dragon's obediently lowered shoulder and strode towards them, dressed in black and red, as befit her House. From everything he'd heard about her, it would be best to show as much deference as possible, and leave no doubt as to their motives.

Anders glanced at Ynys, and they both sunk to their knees, as did Grey Worm. The last time he'd done this, he'd sworn fealty to Doran Martell. Before she could reach them, he slid his sword from its sheath and laid it before him.

Head lowered, he could see her boots come to a halt not far from them. “Prince Anders, I presume?”

Her voice was cool and self-possessed. “Yes, Your Grace.” He allowed himself to look up, and realised that the rumours about her beauty were true. “This is my daughter and heir, the Princess Ynys.”

In the darkness, he couldn't make out the colour of her eyes, but it was of course well-known. She looked at them expectedly.

“I, Anders of House Yronwood, Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear, Lord of Yronwood, the Bloodroyal, the Warden of the Stone Way”, he had almost as many titles as her, “pledge my fealty to you, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Your Name, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, rightful Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men.” He hoped she'd forgive him for leaving out the rest. “Dorne shall serve House Targaryen with shield, sword, and spear whenever and where-ever called upon, from the Salt Shore to the Wall.” It was the oath of Maron Martell to Daeron II, designed to underline Dorne's place as part of all Westeros. “I swear it by the sun and the sand, to fire and blood. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

The queen's gaze turned to his daughter, who visibly swallowed. “I, Ynys of House Yronwood, heir to Dorne and Sunspear, pledge to honour my lord father's vow when time comes. I swear it by the sun and the sand, to fire and blood. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“Although Dorne joined the Seven Kingdoms late, it never broke faith with my House”, the queen said. “I accept your oath. Arise.”

As Anders did, he noticed just how small she was. She studied his face for a moment, leaving him with the distinct feeling of being dissected like a body at the Citadel, before turning to Grey Worm, still kneeling.

In a High Valyrian that sounded far better than anything he'd been taught by his maester, she asked him what he was doing on the floor. A heartfelt scene unfolded next, of which Anders could only understand bits and pieces. “I failed you”, he could hear the Unsullied insist. “We let him kill you, and we didn't kill him.”

To his surprise, it sounded like the queen was quite glad that her murderer still lived – although she seemed to be saying something about “plans” that sounded quite sinister.

Sounding and acting nothing like she had before, Daenerys pulled the Unsullied to his feet, clasping his hands and smiling tenderly. As she slipped into a bastard Valyrian closer to what Grey Worm himself was speaking, Anders could understand less, although he thought that she was talking about all the Unsullieds' loyalty. He was quite sure that he could see Grey Worm's expression change from shame and trepidation to relief and gratitude.

After that was seemingly done, the queen nodded to Naharis, then turned back to Anders. “I believe we have quite a lot to discuss, my lord.”

 

They did. Standing in the map room in Yrowood, Anders gave her a brief overview. “Even before we heard that you lived, Your Grace, Queen Yara and I had been making plans to avenge you.”

“Not to gain your own independence?”, she asked with an arched brow.

“That, too”, he said, figuring it was best to be honest. “Dorne could not bow to the Usurper. You are a different matter, my queen.”

That answer seemed to satisfy her, and he went on. “As you know, Queen Yara has rebuilt the iron fleet, and is ready to strike at any moment. My younger daughter Gwyneth is with her, acting as a link between Dorne and the Iron Islands.” And quite a lot more than that, he suspected.

“My husband, Ser Ryon Allyrion”, Ynys continued, “is in King's Landing, acting as the Usurper's master of whisperers.”

Now, both brows shot up. “That is excellent”, she said. “What do we know of Bran's powers?”

“We believe that they are severely constrained outside the North”, Anders explained. “Ser Ryon tells us that the Usurper is mostly uninvolved in ruling, but rather obsessed with Drogon's whereabouts.”

The queen gave a quick, dry laugh. “He should be. What else?”

“King's Landing is in a dire state, Your Grace”, Ynys said. “The red faith has taken over the city, preaching against the Usurper and having the people pray for your return. The small council is growing desperate and feeling helpless, and often at each others' throats. With much of Westeros still ravaged by war and a master of coin who is both incompetent and hostile to the idea of helping his subjects, famine reigns, slowly even affecting the Red Keep.” She paused. “I believe you could fly in tomorrow and the people would storm the castle without you having to lift a single finger, Your Grace.”

Daenerys regarded the map. “A good point, though it would rather ruin the surprise I had planned for the North. Any news from there?”

“They are mostly snowed-in and isolated”, Anders said. “The Usurper had a vision once, however, which showed him that they were in need of food aid – but the south has none to give, or is unwilling to do so. Apparently Lord Tully holds a grudge against his niece, when he would be the most obvious choice for helping her.” Anders still remembered how Sansa had told Edmure off at the Great Council. “Further, it appears that Sansa Stark is married, and with child. Considering how many moons have passed since this report, she must be nearing her time, assuming her pregnancy went well.”

“That is highly interesting.” The queen nodded to herself, then pointed at Storm's End. “What about Gendry Baratheon? I legitimised him; you would think he would have some loyalty for me. Although he was also terribly enamoured by Arya Stark.”

“We have not heard much from the Stormlands, Your Grace.” In truth, Anders had hardly thought about the man. “Things seem quite uneventful, and Lord Gendry keeps away from the capital.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “And Jon Snow?”

Anders and Ynys exchanged a look. “We do not know, Your Grace”, his daughter then said. “It is already next to impossible to receive news from Winterfell, and the Wall is even worse. Next to what we know from the Usurper's visions, the only source of information about the North stems from the Iron Islands.” She pointed towards Cape Kraken. “Queen Yara has been pillaging the northern shores for wood to rebuild her fleet, and my sister says that the northerners are starting to react. There appears to have been a recent improvement in the weather conditions, which could mean a possible confrontation.”

“Very well.” Daenerys took another long look at the map. “I believe it is time to rest for now, but on the morrow, we will discuss how to proceed next.”

She was right. Anders, too, was tired, and they would need to be making plans that would require their full attention.

The most important thing, however, was to act quickly. You couldn't hide a dragon for long.

 


	17. Rickard II | Davos V

Rickard II

The king consort winced as yet another bloodcurdling scream rang through the halls of Winterfell.

The queen had been in the birthing bed for hours, and Rickard and her household had been helplessly waiting outside her bedchamber. Maester Wolkan had warned him that it would turn ugly; that birth almost always did. Still. There was only so much anyone could stand.

He finally asked the question he hadn't dared to voice before. Turning to Edwin Snow, Ser Hallen, and Alard Marsh, he said: “What if she dies?”

Hallen stopped his pacing, Snow almost dropped his ale, and Marsh just looked at him in shock. “She can't”, he said.

“Well, I don't want her to either.” Rickard waved his hand, irritated. “But she might. Women die in childbirth all the time. So what then?”

He'd not spoken much to his wife in the months since her pregnancy had been announced. His pride had been wounded by her refusal to have him in her bed, and she never consulted him on any questions of ruling either. He actually had no idea if any arrangements had been made.

“It depends on whether the child lives or not”, Snow finally said. “If both die, the North goes to King Bran.”

Rickard frowned. “What? That doesn't make any sense.”

“Sadly, yes”, Ser Hallen said. “Not by the laws of the Six Kingdoms; they now choose their kings. But the North must go to the next Stark in line. It could be the Princess Arya, but only the gods know where she is.”

Rickard tried to imagine the Northern lords' reaction to _that_. “We wouldn't accept that”, he said, and Marsh nodded gravely. “The queen knows that, but there's nothing that can be done. Some of the lords will revolt against it, and then we'll see if Bran fights or lets one of them claim the throne. Others would be fine with it. He _is_ a Stark.”

Rickard thought about which Northern noble could possibly lay a claim on the crown, before it dawned on him. The one married to the queen should have a good chance.

“And if she dies, but the child lives”, he said, “I assume I will be regent until the heir comes of age.”

Their conversation was interrupted by another scream. After, he saw that all three were looking at him carefully. “She didn't tell you, Your Grace?”, Ser Hallen asked.

He didn't like the sound of that. “Tell me what?”

There was a pause, another scream, then another moment of silence. “The queen has written a royal decree”, Snow then said, “proclaiming that the regency should be comprised of a council of all of us.”

Rickard blinked, then pointed around the room. “Us four?”

“And the maester”, Marsh added.

Gods. For a moment, Rickard considered storming into Sansa's bedchamber to ask her what on earth she was thinking. It was one thing to keep him out of her rule; he didn't even have much interest in it. But as husband to the queen and father of the heir to the North, it was his _right_ to act as regent.

This was just one of many times she'd shown him blatant disrespect. Their wedding, where he had been denied cloaking her; where she had almost cloaked _him_ by crowning him. Their child, which would not bear his name. Her sending her maester of all people to tell him not to come to her bed anymore, when all he'd ever done in there was please her, and when it was her wifely duty to satisfy him beyond producing an heir. And now this – even from her tomb, she'd be giving part of his power away to her advisors, including the power to decide how his own child would be raised.

She wasn't even that good of a queen, he thought. If she was, they wouldn't be about to run out of food stores just as their child was coming into the world.

Suddenly overcome with the urge to hit something, Rickard considered running off to do some sparring. This birth could still go on for many more hours, and even if it didn't, he didn't see why he should do her the curtesy of being at her side right after birth.

Before he could do that, though, he realised that the screaming had stopped. The other three seemed to have come to the same conclusion, and the men looked at each other nervously. That could mean any number of things.

Shortly after, the door opened, and a maid left the room with a large bundle of bloody sheets – and a wide smile on her face. From the bedchamber, they could hear a newborn screaming.

Rickard pushed the maid out of the way and ran into the bedchamber. There was still a lot of blood, but Sansa seemed quite alive, if pale and exhausted. He didn't see the child at first, then understood that the babe was merely obscured by Wolkan's large frame as he cleaned it off and wrapped it.

When Wolkan turned around, the bundle in his arms, Rickard stuck out his to receive his child. Instead, the maester went straight to placing it in Sansa's lap.

Well, then. He walked up to her instead. “Boy or girl?”, he asked.

“A boy.” Sansa had a soft smile on her face as the babe latched onto her breast. “Prince Eddard of House Stark.”

Eddard. She could've named him Rickard, really; her own grandfather had borne that name. He should truly push for it for their second son.

Despite all his disappointments – he had a _son_. Little Eddard had his mother's bright blue eyes, but his own brown hair, if not much of it for now.

He had a son, and one day, his son would be king.

 

The queen recovered from childbirth quickly, and soon gave the prince over to a wet nurse. There was a realm to govern, after all, and apparently one problem had to be dealt with swiftly.

Due to the improved weather, two of the three spurned suitors had been able to return home – Tallhart and Dustin. Robert Flint was to leave soon, too, but his departure was accelerated when Sansa called both him and Rickard into her solar.

“Lord Robert, you must be aware of the continuing problems at Cape Kraken”, she said. Even Rickard knew that the ironborn had been causing trouble, as they were wont to do. “Your lord father has bid me to send men, and of course I agreed. He has also sent instructions for you to accompany these men to defend your lands before you return to Flint's Finger.” With that, she handed him a scroll, and Robert nodded. “About time, Your Grace.”

Sansa turned to Rickard. “We can't afford to send many men, but we must show our support. Obviously, I am unable to fight with them. You are not, my lord husband.”

 _Finally_. “I will be happy to show that scum what northerners are made of.”

Gods, now that the opportunity was before him, he couldn't wait to get out of Winterfell. Get on a horse again, lead men like a king, and be away from his wife. The soldiers would respect him, and after they'd defeated the ironborn, the Flints would host him with a – well, not a lavish feast considering the general lack of food, but some kind of celebration. And there, in Sansa's absence, he'd get the place of high honour.

Rickard almost wanted to thank the ironborn.

 

 

Davos V

“Quiet!”, Lord Royce bellowed out over the bickering lords and ladies. “Let the Hand speak.”

Every noble still in King's Landing was in the throne room, mostly to complain. Tyrion sat on a simple chair where the Iron Throne had been, trying very hard not to let his exasperation show.

“My lords and ladies”, he said, voice tired and perhaps a bit slurred. “The king is well-aware of the gravity of our situation -”

“Then where is he?”, a man interrupted. Davos thought he might be some kind of Fossoway. “We have barely seen the king since he appointed the small council. Is he even still alive?”

A murmur went through the crowd at that. “Of course he's alive”, Tyrion said, irritated. “His Grace is in the godswood to have some peace and quiet to _think_ and to devise a plan as to how we can get out of our predicament.”

“And what has His Grace been doing the entire time before that?”, some knight asked.

Tyrion sighed. “Our king has been very busy ruling, my lords and ladies.” That was a lie, but Davos was not about to tell anyone that. “He simply prefers to do this out of the public eye. Now, as I said, both the king and his council are aware that things are bad. While we work on fixing this, we would appreciate your cooperation in -”

“How are you going to fix anything, my lord?” Davos knew this one; Lord Rykker of Duskendale. “You and your council are precisely the reason we are in this situation. Just last week, I sent out one of my own guards to fetch me something from the blacksmith. He never came back!”

“Be glad, my lord”, another said. “Two moons ago, I sent a man to the harbour. He came back a fortnight later, clad in red and trying to burn my copy of the Seven-Pointed Star.”

“Well I sent out one of my maids, my lords”, cut in some lady from the Westerlands, “and she was burned alive in the streets!”

“She most certainly was _not_ , Lady Westerling.” Tyrion's hands were gripping the arms of his chair. “As bad as the red priests are, they haven't burned anyone yet.”

 _Yet._ As much as Davos agreed with that assessment, it perhaps hadn't been wise to use that word.

“But you believe they will?”, the possible Fossoway caught on, and more murmurs went through the assembled nobles. Tyrion tried to argue to control the damage, but the noise drowned him out until Lord Royce shouted for quiet once again, this time aided by Ser Brienne.

“His Grace”, Tyrion said, audibly strained, “is presently considering the reassembly of the Most Devout in order to elect a new High Septon. Once the Faith of the Seven -”

“Why has he not done that a year ago? Why not when he was first made king?” This was some lordling from the Crownlands.

“I can tell you that, ser”, Lord Rykker cut in. “It is because His Grace follows the old northern gods, and has nothing but disdain for the Seven.”

“The old gods and the new, my lords”, Tyrion responded, “have coexisted peacefully for thousands of years. The king knows that the true threat to any faith of this realm lies in the priests of the Lord of Light. It is merely taking so long because His Grace is considering very carefully -”

“Which realm, my Lord Hand?”, another cut in. “The North is no longer part of this kingdom. There is only one faith in this realm, and it is that of the Seven.”

Davos wondered if he'd try to tell that to the people of King's Landing. Ser Edmund, meanwhile, was gravely offended. “I do not like what you are implying, my lord. My House of Blackwood has ruled in the Riverlands for thousands of years, and we follow the old gods.”

“Yes, ser”, the man replied. “And that is the reason you are master of laws. Why else would the king appoint a green boy from the country to lead the City Watch?”

He wasn't wrong, Davos thought. Ser Edmund huffed and made to respond, but was cut off by Lord Vance, who also hailed from the Riverlands. “My lords and ladies”, he said with an air of importance, “this strange Blackwood appointment shows the true nature of our problem. For over a year, my lord of Tully has been pestered by Northern requests for food supplies – despite the fact that Queen Sansa had grossly insulted Lord Edmure at the Great Council, and that she had declared Northern independence full-well knowing the consequences it would entail. Of course, she was granted this independence without argument – but that should not be surprising considering who supposedly rules the rest of this realm.”

Whispers of agreement went through the crowd, and Davos really didn't like where he thought this was going. “Now, even the Crown in King's Landing is commanding the Riverlands to send supplies to the North, even though we barely have enough to feed our own people, and King's Landing is clearly starving. The problem is so grave that even _we_ are running out of food, and yet the king wants to send it all north instead.”

It wasn't exactly true that the Red Keep was running out, but the fare had gotten noticeably more plain. Davos wouldn't mind if he didn't know that this would eventually lead to no food at all, but the fine lords and ladies weren't used to it like he was.

“Our king”, Lord Vance continued, and Davos exchanged a nervous glance with Tyrion, “would rather we help the North than help ourselves. He refuses to strengthen the Faith of the Seven, _our_ faith, because he would rather we all planted weirwood trees – so much so that he is letting the red priests invade our lands.”

Davos saw Lord Royce walk up to Ser Edmund and Ser Brienne, beginning to whisper to them.

“Our king is a Stark, my lords and ladies”, Vance exclaimed. “We have a Northern king who follows the Northern gods and would rather help the North than any of us. And yet, the North is not even part of this realm. Am I”, he looked through the crowd, “the only one here who thinks there is something wrong with that?”

“Treason!”, Lord Royce barked, and he, Ser Edmund, and Ser Brienne drew their swords. As a response, the cling of metal resounded through he throne room.

Davos suddenly wished for Bronn and his personal guard, but the master of coin had returned to Highgarden with his pregnant wife a few moons ago, just before it had become impossible for nobles to leave the Red Keep. The man's instinct for self-preservation was remarkable.

“My lord”, Tyrion said into the tense silence. “I am certain that the difficulties we are finding ourselves in have taken a toll on you and put a strain on your mind. If you please, you might reconsider your words.”

But Vance spread out his arms, short-sword in one hand, and calmly looked towards the dais. “I meant every word I said, Imp. That crippled Stark boy is no king of mine. What are you going to do to punish me?”

What indeed? Davos looked towards Tyrion, who stared back of him with an expression of desperation. They could have Lord Vance's head, yes, but then they'd also need to kill every other noble in this room, judging by the protective circle that was forming around him.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Vance nodded. “I did not think so”, he said, and made to leave the throne room, the majority of nobles following him.

It left them with very few lords and ladies, and the members of the small council who'd been in attendance. Ser Ryon, who like Davos hadn't said a single word, cleared his throat. “I do know some of Lord Vance's darker secrets. Blackmail, perhaps?”

But Tyrion shook his head, looking more defeated than Davos had ever seen him. “I admire your continuing attempts to fix this, ser, but it is no use.”

Not everyone seemed to be as ready to give up, however. Lord Royce gave Ser Ryon a measuring look. “We need to restore order to the city and the Red Keep, and we need to do it soon. For that, we need an army. Am I right in thinking that Dorne remains steadfast and loyal?”

Ser Ryon nodded in deference. “Of course, my lord. You were there when Prince Anders proclaimed His Grace king. You can count on us, now and always.”

 


	18. Yara VI | Anders IV

Yara VI

“So what is she like?”, Gwyneth asked. “The Dragon Queen.”

They were lying in bed, the princess' head resting on Yara's shoulder. Thoughtfully, the queen ran her hand through Gwyn's hair.

“When I first met her, in Meereen, she had just defeated the slave masters trying to retake the city. She needed ships, and I had them, and that got me the promise of our independence. She was talking about our fathers being evil men, and about making the world a better place.” Yara paused. “Of course, she later burned King's Landing to the ground, but nobody's perfect.”

Gwyneth snorted. “I can see how any idealistic notions vanished quite instantly once she actually got to Westeros. Is she truly the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“Hmm...” Yara picked up a strand of the princess' hair, dark and shining like silk. “I'd put her on second place.” Gwyn rolled her eyes. “I also like to think that her and I had a bit of chemistry.”

At that, the princess laughed. “Of course you did. You do have a way with the ladies.”

Gwyn turned to kiss Yara, perhaps a bit possessively. But the queen remembered something else, and regretfully pulled away before it could progress any further. “She's also terrifying”, she said. “Your father did well to bend the knee as soon as they'd met. The way I remember her, Daenerys was prone to exacting mercy over her former enemies and constantly being second-guessed by her advisors, and look where that got her. If I were her, I'd accept no more questioning, and no more defiance. And that dragon...”

Gwyneth sunk back into the sheets. “Not to worry, my love. Once I finally meet her, I will be on my knees as quickly as father and Ynys. I have no intention of ending up as a pile of ash.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Queen!”, she heard one of her guards shout. “Ships returning from the North.”

Yara sighed. “This better be good”, she said as she rose from bed, having another good look at Gwyneth's naked body. “I'd hate to be interrupted just to inspect timber.”

 

As it turned out, it was far more than that.

Lord Saltcliffe met her at Lordsport harbour, blood in his hair and dents in his armour. “The northerners have finally caught on”, he explained. “When we got there, they were waiting for us, Flint and Stark men.” Then he grinned. “I don't think they were expecting as many ships as we had.”

Yara had known that, sooner or later, this would turn into a real confrontation. For a while, she'd been surprised at not hearing from King's Landing, but according to Gwyneth's good-brother, they had their own problems in the Red Keep. “So we get on shore like nothing's wrong”, Saltcliffe continued, “and this pompous lordling starts telling us to get back to where we came from, in the name of Queen Sansa.” He laughed. “Then we hacked them all to pieces. Took two prisoners, that lordling and another one.” He pointed to the ships. “And more wood.”

“Well done.” Yara clasped his shoulder. “Always knew I could rely on you, Donnor. What state are the prisoners in?”

He shrugged. “Not too bad. Second one's got a good hit against his jaw, but I think he can still talk. The first one barely has a scratch on him. Not a bad fighter, that one, but he's green and didn't have our numbers. Haven't talked to them yet, thought we'd leave that to you.”

“Their names?”, Yara asked, beginning to walk towards the ship. “Second one looks like a Flint”, Saltcliffe said. “First one didn't say, but I'm sure he can't wait to tell you.”

“Have them brought to Pyke”, she commanded. Northern prisoners were just what they needed – finally someone who knew what was going on there. If there had been Stark men sent, then maybe one of the two had recently been to Winterfell, or at least heard something.

According to what the red priest had been told from Dorne, Queen Daenerys couldn't wait to exact her revenge on Sansa and Jon Snow. This could hardly have been more convenient.

 

 

Anders IV

When he brought her the news, the queen's eyebrows almost disappeared in her hairline.

“The Usurper has _asked_ you to march on King's Landing?”, she repeated, and Anders couldn't blame her for her incredulity.

“It appears that it was rather the Imp and Lord Royce, Your Grace”, he said. “Brandon does not seem to concern himself with matters of ruling.”

Daenerys laughed. “You know, dear prince, I have long thought that Tyrion might have been betraying me the entire time. Even in Meereen, he gave bad counsel. But now, I am beginning to think that he might simply be far less competent than everyone is giving him credit for.”

“A fair assessment, Your Grace”, Ynys said, and Grey Worm nodded. “He is very good at making everyone think he is smart”, the Unsullied opined. “That is why Bran is king.”

The queen regarded the map with a certain glee. “You will do as asked then, and march most of the Dornish host to King's Landing. How many men did they ask for?”

Anders looked at the scroll again. “As many as we can spare.”

“Send all, then”, she said simply. “We still have the Unsullied and my Ghiscari army.”

“If I may, Your Grace”, Ynys cut in, “my husband's letters make it appear that after many months of the red priests' preaching, the people of King's Landing truly detest the Crown, but love you. If our troops were to march into the city and the people believed them to be the Crown's, they would turn against them.”

“Indeed, princess.” Daenerys stared at the map for a heartbeat. “And yet, I do not wish the Usurper and his council to know of the Dornish army's true intentions until they are in the Red Keep. I will give order to the red priests to tell the people that Dorne is on their side.” She looked at Anders, and as always, he found her gaze unnerving. “That will take time, so have your army march slowly. Daario”, she turned to her commander, “you will go with them. I could not deprive you of the pleasure of seeing Tyrion's face once he recognises you.”

Naharis gave his usual grin. “Thank you, my queen.”

“We have more news, Your Grace”, Ynys said. “Lord Gendry has accepted our invitation to Sunspear.”

“Very good. Are you certain that he does not know that your sister is nowhere near Dorne?”

They had invited the Lord of Storm's End under the pretext of an offer of betrothal to Gwyneth. Considering his common upbringing, they had wagered that he'd like to meet the bride beforehand, and it seemed to have paid off.

“It appears so, Your Grace”, Anders said. “We are truly counting on his ignorance in this matter.” They had thought that the man's love for Arya Stark, which the queen had known of from Winterfell, could have been a greater obstacle. But as they were not going to wed Gwyneth to him either way, the only important thing was that he'd come to Dorne.

“Now, for the Reach”, the queen said. “You are certain that this Bronn has got an heir on the Hightower girl?”

“We do not believe the child is born yet, Your Grace”, Ynys explained, and Daenerys looked thoughtful. “I understand that the lords of the Reach hate their new upstart overlord, but do you believe they'd be more accepting towards his child, provided the mother is a Hightower? We certainly cannot eliminate her if we are hoping for Lord Hightower's support.” She shrugged. “Although I suppose that if needed, we could eliminate _the_ Hightower.”

Anders hoped that it wouldn't come to that. “We must wait and see how this pregnancy ends, Your Grace. As regarding the rest...”, he glanced over the map. “The Westerlands will likely have to be taken by force, which the ironborn should be able to help with. The Vale is impossible to conquer with an army, but as your ancestor Visenya has shown, a dragon should do. If anyone in the Crownlands resists your conquest, your army on Dragonstone will be able to take care of that. Now the Riverlands are an interesting case.” He paused while the queen nodded her agreement to his previous points. “Lord Edmure Tully holds a grudge against Sansa Stark, and it might be possible to fully turn him against her. The Blackwoods are a powerful House and are bound to the Usurper by faith and by Ser Edmund's appointment as master of laws, but their loyalty to Brandon means that the Brackens will turn to our side. And it was Lord Vance who recently led the nobles in the Red Keep to speak against the Usurper.” He briefly stopped to let her take that in. “Speaking of him, Ser Ryon has been able to let the lords in the castle know that the arrival of Dornish troops would mean an end to Brandon. They will stay their hand until then.”

“Good”, Daenerys said. “What about the North?” Then she smiled, as if she had made a joke only she could understand.

“We still do not know much, Your Grace”, Ynys admitted. “Sansa might have a child now, or she could have died during the birth for all we know. Either way it should not be too difficult to take, barring the weather turning even worse. The ironborn have been pillaging from them for a while, and met no resistance. At least, that was the last thing we heard from my sister.”

“Excellent”, the queen replied. “I do like our chances. Prepare your troops to march on King's Landing, Prince Anders. You shouldn't make the Usurper wait for too long.”

 


	19. Rickard III

Hands bound and a bag over his head, he was pushed down onto his knees, pain shooting through him as they hit hard stone. Next to him, he heard another meet the same fate, and then the bag was yanked off his head.

Rickard found himself in what appeared to be a Great Hall. Next to him, Robert Flint knelt in the same position. In front of them, a woman dressed as a man was sitting on a throne made of oily black stone, a wooden crown on her head, with a beautiful younger woman standing at her side.

It wasn't difficult to figure out where he was. “Greyjoy”, he said, trying to sound as authoritative as he could under the circumstances. “Return us to the North now, and the queen will ask her brother to give you a quick and merciful death.” Death. He'd seen a lot of it at Cape Kraken, and Rickard was still shaken by the slaughter.

The women laughed. “You are addressing Queen Yara of the Iron Islands”, the prettier one said. She sounded foreign. “It would do you well to show some respect.”

He tried to smirk. “Another Greyjoy rebellion, is it? _You_ are addressing the King in the North. Unbind me.” Using the same tone hadn't worked with the ironborn who'd killed all his men, but what choice did he have?

The women looked at each other, eyebrows raised. “I thought he just mentioned the queen?”, Greyjoy asked the foreigner in mock confusion. “Who are you, _Your Grace_ ”, her voice was dripping with sarcasm, “to have convinced Sansa Stark to give up her crown?”

“He's king _consort_ ”, Flint rasped out next to him, clearly having trouble speaking. Rickard dearly wanted to give him another punch to the jaw, so as to break it completely. “He doesn't rule.”

What a fucking idiot Flint was. “Well, that explains it.” The foreign one walked towards him, hips swaying, and studied his face. “Rickard Ryswell, then. He's a pretty one”, she reported to Greyjoy. “That _is_ rare in the North. I can see why Stark would pick him.”

“And who are you?”, Flint asked, while Rickard attempted not to squirm too visibly under her gaze. “An Essosi whore brought in to pleasure the ironborn _queen_?”

By the gods, Flint would get them killed – although Rickard had the same suspicion. Yara Greyjoy was well-known for bedding women.

The foreigner blinked, then looked up to the throne. “I will have his tongue for that”, she said flatly, and walked back towards the self-proclaimed queen. Greyjoy smiled down at them, quite dangerously. “You are addressing”, she repeated the other woman's earlier words, “Princess Gwyneth of House Yronwood, daughter to the Prince of Dorne and heir to Yronwood.”

 _Dorne_. Of course. Rickard had never met anyone Dornish before, but he'd always heard that they spoke strangely down there.

That aside, this was bad. He glared at Flint, who had visibly paled. That fool had really just called a Dornish princess a whore. Rickard thought he'd be lucky if he got away with only his tongue removed.

“What is a princess of Dorne doing on the Iron Islands, then?”, he asked, mostly because he was genuinely curious. The women exchanged another look, with Princess Gwyneth leaning against Greyjoy's throne. Instead of answering his question, Greyjoy said: “You just told us that your lady wife would have her brother attack us, Ryswell. But then, you northerners must've known about our pillaging for quite a while, and I've yet to receive as much as a stern letter from King's Landing.”

She wasn't wrong, Rickard knew. Sansa had been growing increasingly anxious about King Bran's lack of response. “In truth”, Greyjoy continued, “I don't have the impression that the usurper king cares much for the North these days, while the North should't be too preoccupied with our demands for independence, seeing as you're no longer part of the realm either.”

Again, he could see her point. But why had she just called King Bran a usurper?

“You have been stealing from our shores”, he said. “That is an attack on the North, and we responded. Should you return us and swear to cease your pillaging, the queen will leave the matter be. If not, then your claims to independence mean that we are free to attack these barren islands of yours, and raze Pyke to the ground as we should have done after your last rebellion.”

It was an empty boast, considering the state of the North's forces, and he had the distinct feeling that the women knew this. “You just claimed that our friend Ryswell here does not rule, Flint”, the Dornishwoman said, returning to them. Rickard wasn't surprised they knew who Robert was, considering he was dressed in his sigil from head to toe. “Does he speak for his wife?”

Flint averted his eyes. “I do not believe so, princess.”

“Ah, _princess_.” She smiled mockingly and ran a delicate hand through Flint's mud-streaked hair as he shrunk away. “Look who has suddenly found his manners.” Then she fixed her green eyes on Rickard. “We have heard reports that your lady wife was with child. How did that end?”

How did they even know that? He thought that barely anything had left the North, but they had also known his name once it had been revealed that he was husband to the queen.

Perhaps if he told them the truth, they would be convinced of his importance to the North. If they wanted wood, Sansa might exchange it for him as a hostage. “A boy, my lady”, he said, trying to be polite himself. “Prince Eddard. Mother and child are well.”

At that revelation, Yronwood and Greyjoy stared at each other again, some kind of unspoken conversation passing between them. Rickard wasn't certain if he'd just made a mistake or not, but he sure still wondered what the Dornish princess was doing here, and why she seemed to close to the ironborn queen.

“You must be pleased”, Greyjoy finally said. “Your son, a Ryswell, will one day rule the North.”

Flint snorted, and Rickard decided that the princess was welcome to take his tongue. “The boy's a Stark”, he said.

Gwyneth, still standing over them, smiled. “I am glad that Dornish customs have reached the North”, she remarked. “Of course, it must be strange for a man like you, Lord Rickard.” That wasn't his title, but then again, he wouldn't have known how to address himself either. “You are the husband to the queen, but not truly the king. Your son is the prince, and yet your House will not rule. Tell me, are you called Stark now? Did the queen cloak you at your wedding?”

Flint almost laughed, and Rickard was oh so sick of that joke. “I will always be a Ryswell, my lady”, he forced himself to say.

“That is good to know”, Greyjoy said from up on her throne. And why was that? Rickard really had the feeling that something far larger was afoot.

“Now you understand that we are valuable hostages”, he proclaimed, well-aware that he'd already come a long way from boasting of a Northern invasion of the islands. “If you treat me well, I will persuade my wife the queen to grant you rights to some of our forests upon my return.”

That was highly unlikely, especially considering just how far Winterfell's own lands were from the shore. “Oh no, my lord”, Gwyneth said, pretending very badly to pity them. “We would both truly _love_ to give you back to your dear lady wife, but what happens to you is not for us to decide.”

Flint coughed, and Rickard tried desperately to make sense of all this. “You call yourself queen”, he said to Greyjoy, “but you do not make the decisions? Then you are hardly more of a queen than I am a king.”

She, too, stood. “I am very much a queen, Ryswell, but I have allies to consider. Allies who have far more of an interest in the North and your traitorous bitch of a wife than I.”

“Trai-”, he began and shook his head. Sansa hadn't betrayed anyone. “Who on earth are you talking about, woman?”

Greyjoy laughed and joined them down the steps of her throne, squatting before Rickard so their faces were at the same height. “Why, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, of course.”

While he was frantically trying to work out if she could be some kind of strange holdover loyalist of Cersei Lannister, Greyjoy reached into her pocket and produced a large, flat, black object. “Do you know what this is, Ryswell?”

He eyed it carefully, but with his hands still bound he couldn't touch it. “Some kind of metal? How am I meant to know?”

He felt the Dornish princess' hand in his hair, now, as she bent down to loudly whisper in his ear: “It's a dragon scale.”

Before the full extent of this revelation could hit him, Greyjoy stood again, forcing him to look up at her as she spoke. “Queen Daenerys lives, and she is very, very angry. A lot of that anger is directed at the Starks. Now...” She glanced at Flint, then back at him. “You will both meet her soon enough, and your fate is in her hands alone. I've never actually seen anyone killed by dragonfire, but I don't imagine it's a great way to die. If I were you, I'd consider how to play your cards _very_ well.”

“Do not give yourselves to any illusions”, Gwyneth continued, joining Greyjoy before them. “The North will fall. But Her Grace's wrath is directed at the Starks, not at every single northerner.” She paused. “And Jon Snow, as you can imagine. She will destroy Sansa, and she will fly to Castle Black to get her revenge on Snow, but -”

“He's not at Castle Black”, Rickard interrupted, before he could stop himself. Perhaps it came from some deep-seated urge to preserve his own head. “A rider from the Watch came to Wintefell a long time ago, before our wedding. Snow has deserted the Watch has soon as he got there and gone out to live with the wildlings beyond the Wall.” He could feel Flint's eyes on him, but that man was in no position to judge him.

“Well”, Greyjoy said after she'd taken that in. Princess Gwyneth had a small smile on her face. “I see you are willing to save your own skin, Ryswell. Good for you. Queen Daenerys will be most grateful for that bit of information.”

He sure hoped so. As much as it was still difficult to make sense of all this, Rickard knew one thing: If the Dragon Queen had returned, the North as it currently stood would have no chance.

And he was not ready to die just yet.

 


	20. Wolkan IV | Daenerys III

Wolkan IV

As he had so many times before, Wolkan hurried towards the queen's solar. She'd told him to let her know as soon as they received word from the Flints.

After a curt knock, he entered the room, where he found her with both Alard Marsh and Edwin Snow. “At the moment, our only defence is Winterfell itself”, the master-at-arms said. “I know we're not expecting any attacks for the time being, but should it ever happen, I'd sleep much more soundly behind repaired walls.”

The queen nodded. “We might as well take advantage of any good weather we can get. Steward, see to it that the repairs continue.” She looked up at Wolkan. “What is it, maester? Is my son well?”

“Of course, Your Grace”, he said distractedly. Prince Eddard had seemed fine as ever the last time he'd seen him with the wet nurse a few hours ago, and Wolkan would've heard if that had changed in any way. He handed her the scroll. “From Lord Flint, Your Grace. You said I should inform you as soon as there were any news.”

She took the parchment, broke the seal, read, and then very slowly and carefully placed the scroll back on her table. The men watched as the queen stood, calmly walked towards a window, and stared outside for a few heartbeats.

“Gods”, she finally said, tone hollow. The men exchanged glances, before Marsh dared to say: “Your Grace?”

Sansa sighed and turned to them, expression particularly icy. “Our men and the Flints' met the ironborn pillagers at Cape Kraken”, she recounted. “There, they were confronted with a much larger force than anticipated. The ironborn obliterated our northmen. It appears that both Robert Flint and my lord husband have been captured. Besides them, there was only one other Northern survivor, a footsoldier who reported to Lord Flint.”

That stunned them into silence. “I must send _another_ raven to King's Landing, and if Bran does not react to that, then”, the queen threw up her hands. “I actually do not know what to do then. How many men do we have left, Edwin?”

Snow cleared his throat. “Seventy.”

“ _Seventy.”_ She sat back down, heavily falling into her chair. “I suppose that if there is no help from Bran, I must send a message to Pyke, to find out what they want for my husband's return. And young Flint's.” She shook her head. “Who would have thought that the North would one day have to _ask_ the ironborn to please hand back our king consort?”

“Not the greatest loss, Your Grace. You've got your heir”, Marsh tried to joke, and the queen shot him a warning look. “I need more than one child, Alard, and I do not wish to get married a fourth time. Besides, not getting Rickard back would show weakness. We cannot afford that.” The queen paused, considering. “Not that ransoming him back would be much better. In any case, I expect the Ryswells, too, to be quite insistent that Rickard be returned.”

Wolkan cleared his throat. “There is also the problem that we do not have much we could ransom him for, Your Grace.”

“Yes.” She tapped her fingers on the table, then abruptly stood. “I will write to Bran, and then I will pray. Someone inform the wet nurse that I wish to see my son in the godswood. There does not seem to be anything else I can do.”

 

 

Daenerys III

“You rule a beautiful land, Prince Anders”, she said as they made it into Sunspear, and Daenerys could finally take off her hood. They'd ridden here from Yronwood, which had taken several days – but Drogon was far too conspicuous to take to such a populated place. So was her hair, hence the hood.

“I am glad to hear you say that, Your Grace”, the prince replied. “Many seem to believe it is too dry and sandy.”

“I have crossed the Red Waste”, Daenerys remarked. “The deserts of Dorne are fertile gardens by comparison.”

She couldn't wait for a bath and a new gown. The prince had of course offered her a wheelhouse when they'd begun their journey, but that would've been torturously slow, and she'd reminded him that she was the khal of khals. Dornish horses were quite good, as it turned out.

Still, some rest was welcome. As in Yronwood, she was given the most lavish guest chambers available, although here in Sunspear, servants were told that she was a visiting Lysene dignitary.

Daenerys hadn't purely meant to flatter the prince – she truly did like Dorne. It bore a comforting similarity with Essos in many aspects; the climate and the people, the architecture and the food. It could not be any further removed from the cold, grey wasteland of the North. She had spoken to Grey Worm on the journey – good, loyal, reliable Grey Worm who'd been so full of self-loathing when he'd thought he'd failed her – and even he agreed that Dorne was a step up from the rest of Westeros. She could see why her Targaryen ancestors had favoured the place. She wouldn't be staying here much longer, but she made note to return once she'd retaken the throne.

Today, however, was not even about Dorne. Daenerys had come to Sunspear to meet Lord Gendry, even if he didn't know it yet. She had decided that the best way to convince anyone of her renewed aliveness was to meet them herself.

After a bath, Daenerys was presented with a variety of gowns usually worn by Princess Gwyneth, who seemed of similar stature to her. Shortly later, she was clad in bright red sandsilk and some of her Valyrian jewellery, a dragon-shaped tiara on her head. She'd always thought that the usurper Robert's bastard seemed easily intimidated by royal splendour.

 

Prince Anders received Lord Gendry in Sunspear's audience chamber, Daenerys hiding behind a screen next to the high seats. She could just about make out how the former blacksmith awkwardly stood before the Prince of Dorne, still acting like a commoner, despite his lordly clothes.

“I must confess that I have lied to you, my lord”, Anders said after the formalities had been dealt with. “As much as I would like to wed the Princess Gwyneth to a man of your purported integrity, she must rule Yronwood one day, and can hardly live at Storm's End.”

Daenerys saw Gendry fidget, suddenly even more nervous. “Then why am I here, my prince?”

“There is someone who would like to speak with you, my lord, whose presence in this realm must remain secret for the time being. Someone who you owe quite a lot to, in fact.”

“I don't understand -”, Gendry began, and Daenerys stepped out from behind the screen. In the first heartbeat, he did not appear to recognise her and seemed simply stunned by her appearance. Then, his eyes widened in shock and recognition, and he fell to his knees.

Good. “Your Grace”, he gasped as Daenerys sat on the second high seat next to Prince Anders. This would have belonged to the prince's wife, but she had passed long ago, and Daenerys was his liege.

“I thought you were dead”, Gendry said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I was”, she replied. “And now, I am not. How goes the ruling at Storm's End, my lord?”

“I -”, he began, still on his knees, still shaking his head. “I've learned to read, Your Grace, and ruling's tougher than I ever thought but my advisors say I'm getting better. I think the Stormlords are starting to respect me -” He stopped, staring at her with accusing eyes. “You _burned_ King's Landing.”

“Well, not _all_ of it”, she said, “but most. I wish I had not been forced to do it, but the threat was too great. Such is the way of war.”

He just stared at her in silence for a while, and stood. “What do you want, Your Grace?”, he finally asked.

“To take back the Seven Kingdoms, of course.” She cocked her head. “I have the allegiance of Dorne, and an alliance with the Iron Islands. I also have four thousand Unsullied and more than fifteen thousand Ghiscari soldiers of my own, as well as a very large dragon. I am entirely out of patience and in no mood for mercy. I will punish those who betrayed me and take what is mine.” She could practically see the gears in his head working. “Will you pledge your fealty to me, Lord Baratheon, or will you condemn the Stormlands to the same fate as King's Landing?”

He looked to the right, to the left, to the ground, back up at her. “I'm from King's Landing, Your Grace. I knew some of those people you burned. I saw the house I grew up in later, all turned to ash and rubble.”

“Yes, you are from King's Landing”, she said, then rose to walk towards him. “A bastard boy, a blacksmith's apprentice. Now, you are a trueborn Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. Remind me of why that is?”

His head sunk in shame. “I truly appreciate it, Your Grace, I know I've got you to thank for it -”

“And what else?”, she asked. “You were there at Winterfell when we fought the army of the dead. Why was it that your precious Arya Stark had the time to find and kill the Night King, again?”

She was close to him, but he couldn't look at her. “You, Your Grace, with your armies and your dragons.”

Daenerys hummed. She had stopped one step above him, so they were the same height. “Indeed. So under those circumstances, do you not think that you owe me your fealty? In fact, I am not sure how you remain a lord under the Usurper. He did not legitimise you, did he?”

“Well, no, but.” He sighed, and she could tell that it took him a lot of effort to meet her eyes. In his, she could see uncertainty and fear. “Even if it wasn't for King's Landing, you're talking about punishing the traitors. You mean the Starks, don't you? You have to know how I feel for Arya -”

“Arya Stark may never return to Westeros”, she remarked. “And even if she did, I would have no quarrel with her, provided that she would honour her obligations. Her siblings are another matter altogether.”

“Arya would never let you live if you harmed them”, he said. “And if I helped you, she'd hate me for it. Kill me, most likely.”

She briefly contemplated slapping him in the face. “If I were you, Lord Gendry, I would be more worried about _me_ killing you at the moment. After all, you know I am here, and my enemies should not be made aware of that fact until I decide it is time.” Daenerys looked him over, mostly to make him nervous. “You should not preoccupy yourself with Arya Stark's opinion of you, considering that she has already refused your proposal.” Some of her Unsullied had overheard it the night of the feast. “I am sure that she liked you, but she did not love you in that way, and she may never step onto these shores again. Try to get her out of your head, and consider this.”

Daenerys raised his chin with her hand she could look him in the eyes. “You yourself have just acknowledged that the Starks betrayed me – me, who has raised you to be a lord, and who is your rightful liege. Who has fought for all of Westeros. Who has come to take power at a time when the Seven Kingdoms need it most – you surely have heard of the situation in King's Landing.” He quickly nodded, unable to look away from her. “I am your rightful queen, Lord Baratheon. Your honour demands that you bend the knee and fight beside me.”

With that, she let go of him, and turned to walk back up to the high seats. “Think on it, my lord. I will not be forcing you to make the decision now. Prince Anders has had rooms prepared for you.”

“Am I your prisoner?”, Gendry asked, and Daenerys wanted to laugh. “Or your guest?”

Prince Anders cleared his throat. “Among the nobility, my lord, we sometimes call people guests when they are indeed prisoners. You will be treated like the honoured guest you are, but you are not free to leave.”

 

As soon as Gendry had been led to his chambers, Daenerys wanted to evaluate the meeting with the prince. Instead, they were immediately sought out by a red priestess named Sennora, who seemed to have some extremely urgent news.

“Your Grace, my prince”, she said between a thousand bows, “my brother on the Iron Islands has told me this days ago, but I could not get a hold of you, and did not dare to put it in writing.”

Whatever it was, it must've happened while they were on the road. “Queen Yara and Princess Gwyneth report that the ironborn have captured two Northern nobles, a Robert Flint and a Rickard Ryswell.”

Daenerys looked at Prince Anders, who understood the same as her. “Sansa Stark's husband?”, she asked.

The priestess nodded. “Indeed, Your Grace. They said”, the priestess furrowed her brow in concentration, “that first, he claims that the Queen in the North has borne him a son, a boy named Eddard.” Daenerys continued to be impressed by the priests, who mostly hailed from Essos, but did well with the Westerosi names, titles, and language. “Secondly, the traitor Jon Snow is no longer at the Wall. He has deserted and lives with the savages.”

“The wildlings”, Daenerys murmured. Gods damn it; this would just make him more difficult to find. “Where are the prisoners now?”, the prince asked.

“On the Iron Islands, my lord. They would like to know if you would have them brought to Dorne.”

“No”, Daenerys said immediately. She might as well go to further north already. “Tell them I will come to the Iron Islands. Tell them to look out for me tomorrow night.”

“Your Grace -”, the prince began to protest, but the queen was of no mind to argue. She would call Drogon into the desert close to Sunspear, mount him when it was dark, and then fly high above the clouds before it was dark enough to land once more.

There was truly no point in travelling any other way, even if she'd enjoyed being on a horse again. And on her way, she'd be able to take a look down at the North.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to mention that I'm not sure if flying above the clouds would actually be humanly possible – it'd be extremely cold, and I don't know how much oxygen there is up there. But they did it in the show, so whatever.


	21. Davos VI

Davos hurried through the Red Keep, hand on the pommel of his sword, a knight of the Kingsguard by his side. The king had called an emergency session of the small council, for the first time in his reign.

He didn't think he'd need the guard at the meeting itself, but the way there was another matter. Ever since Lord Vance had rallied most of the nobles behind him, the atmosphere in the castle was thick with tension. Like most of the small council, Davos expected someone to burst through his door and cut his throat at any moment. The only reason the rebells hadn't acted yet, at least according to Tyrion, was that they still feared the people of the city and were uncertain of their reaction.

At least, Ser Ryon had assured them that the Dornish army was on its way. Davos only wished they would hurry up.

The small council chamber was guarded by both Ser Brienne and Podrick, which had to mean that the king was inside. Davos stormed in and found the rest of the councillors already present – exempting Bronn, naturally, who was by all accounts having a wonderful time in Highgarden.

“Ah, Ser Davos”, the king said. “Then we are complete.” He didn't acknowledge Bronn's continued absence. “I have seen something, and we must act. A terrible event is about to unfold in Winterfell.”

The room was stunned into silence, before the councillors looked at each other with incredulity.

“Your Grace?”, Tyrion finally said. “You must be aware that terrible events are currently unfolding in King's Landing. Winterfell is no longer part of your kingdom. Surely, whatever is happening there can wait.”

“This has a greater significance”, Bran replied. “I am not sure what exactly will happen, but it concerns the destruction of something of immeasurable value. It cannot be allowed to take place. We must send a raven to the North to warn my sister.”

“By all means”, Lord Royce said. “Although no raven we have ever sent them has been answered.”

“The weather, most likely”, the Grand Maester explained. “According to the Citadel, no-one has been able to communicate with the North since winter started.”

“We must try”, the king proclaimed.

Tyrion shrugged. “Fine, it won't hurt. But, Your Grace, have you perchance seen anything else? Maybe something more”, he hesitated, “immediately helpful to our situation here and now?”

The king remained silent for a long time, staring into space, and all of them were on the edge of their seats as they awaited his reply. Tyrion was nervously swirling around his wine, Lord Royce had his arms crossed and was staring at the king. Ser Edmund was actually chewing his nails and Grand Maester Tarly staring at his hands while Ser Ryon, too, was closely looking at the king, sitting perfectly upright.

After what felt like an eternity, Bran said: “I cannot.”

They all fell back into their seats. “What do you _mean_ , Your Grace?” Lord Royce was outraged. “We were told you knew all that ever happened and all that is currently happening, and sometimes the future, too.”

The king said nothing for another moment, though this silence was thankfully shorter than the first. “In the North, I can. Down here...” He stared at Lord Royce, still expressionless as always. “Sometimes when I am in the godswood, I can catch a flash here or there, but mostly about what is happening in the North. I am the Three-Eyed Raven, my lord. My power comes from the old gods, and they have little to no power here.”

As they'd thought, then. Davos dearly wanted to hit is head against something, while Tyrion downed his cup and promptly refilled it. The rest of the council had similar trouble in taking in this revelation, although Davos could've sworn that Ser Ryon almost smiled.

He went back to that thought. Had he? No, the master of whisperers' face showed badly concealed despair. He must have started to imagine things.

“Well”, Sam finally said, “we've had plenty of kings who didn't know everything. All of them, in fact. It's no problem, really.”

Lord Royce looked like the Grand Maester had just spat at his feet. “No problem?”, he repeated. “We have more problems than I can count, boy.” He shook his head in indignation. “All this time, I have been a master of war who has been told not to rebuild the army because the king did not deign it necessary. And all this time, I believed that the king would have the knowledge required to make this assessment.”

“I never said that”, Bran remarked, and everyone turned to look at Tyrion, who raised his hands defensively. “I did _ask_ you to give the command, Your Grace, and you never did.”

Another uncomfortable silence followed as everyone tried to not start blaming each other. “So”, Tyrion said, fell silent again. “So”, he repeated. “I will not mince words – this reign has gone off to a bad start. But the good news is that it does not need to continue that way. Once the Dornish army arrives”, he nodded at Ser Ryon, “they can expel the red priests and intimidate the rebellious lords back into compliance. And then, Your Grace, you can finally, truly begin to rule, without any obstacles.”

“I do not want to rule”, Bran replied, and Tyrion blinked. “You accepted us choosing you as king.”

“Because I saw that I would be here. I knew I had to. But I don't _want_ to.”

“Well, of course.” Tyrion raised his cup. “As the wisest man I ever knew once told me: the best ruler is someone who does not want to rule.”

“Varys said that to you.” Davos still couldn't garner any emotion from the king's face. “But I have looked at Varys a lot, in my memories. He has just always wanted a ruler he could manipulate.”

Tyrion sacked into his chair, and the next silence was broken by Lord Royce. “King Robert did not want to rule either”, he remarked. “I had a lot of respect for the man as a warrior, but may the Seven bless him, he was not a good king.”

No-one could argue with that. Davos felt like he finally needed to say something. “Well, be that as it may. We're still here, and we're still gonna need to get through this. If not for ourselves, then for the Six Kingdoms.”

Heads nodded in agreement, before the king said: “I have seen something else, though only very briefly. I believe it was Drogon. I saw the shadow of a dragon flying over a desert, although I cannot say whether it happened in the past or the present.”

“In the desert?”, Tyrion repeated, then shrugged. “That's alright. Essos is welcome to him. Unless, of course”, he looked towards the master of whisperers, “the beast is about to wreak havoc on Dorne.”

Ser Ryon seemed unconcerned. “If he was there, I believe we would have noticed.”

That, too, was generally accepted, but Davos couldn't help but hear a small voice in the back of his mind. _Had_ the Dornishman smiled just then? And _if_ Drogon was currently in a desert, and _if_ that desert was indeed in Dorne, and _if_ Ser Ryon was secretly quite satisfied that the king's powers were more constrained than they'd initially assumed...

No, it couldn't be. A few of the Dornish nobles might have some Targaryen blood in them, if they'd married Martells after Dorne had joined the realm, but surely not enough to control Drogon. And Daenerys was dead, killed by Jon Snow -

Who had, of course, been dead once as well. Hadn't they said, a long time ago, that most reports had placed Drogon near Volantis, where there were more followers of the red god than anywhere else?

The red god, and red priests, like those who'd essentially taken control of King's Landing in the last year.

Davos blinked rapidly, looking around the slowly disbanding small council meeting. For a heartbeat, he met Ser Ryon's eyes, but saw nothing in them that could confirm his suspicions.

No, he decided, this was all far-fetched, and he was beginning to grow paranoid from the stress and fear that ruled the Red Keep. That thought did nothing to ease the growing anxiety deep in his gut, but then he realised something else:

If his vague fears had any truth to them, it was too late to do anything about them anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books, Bran can very much see further than the North, though him going beyond the Wall is also significant. I've decided to make him less powerful than the canon version probably is because it's the only way this really works.
> 
> Also: out of the many many things I hated about season 8, the whole idea of “the best ruler is someone who doesn't want to rule” probably frustrated me most. It's so pervasive even outside the show because it sounds clever, but it's actually not. I guess it comes from the premise that a ruler shouldn't just want power for power's sake, and that's fair enough, and there are plenty of people who want power for the wrong reasons – but not wanting power isn't any good either, if you're meant to rule. I'd say the best motivation for a ruler is wanting to rule in order to do good (and then they'd also need to be right about what “good” actually means, which is hard). Not wanting to rule just means you'll end up being shit at ruling because it's difficult, exhausting, and frustrating. Robert is the perfect in-universe example for that, even. A ruler who doesn't want to rule is only good for advisors who want to rule through them.


	22. Yara VII

“Are you nervous?”, Yara asked, and Gwyneth shook her head. “More excited, really.”

They were standing near the practice grounds on Pyke, and it was the middle of the night. Yara had no illusions that Drogon's arrival would be noticed very soon, but they could at least try to delay that.

They heard him before they saw him, and Gwyn took her hand. The princess' eyes were wide in wonder as he landed. When Daenerys stepped down from his shoulder, Gwyneth's mouth gaped open, before Yara gave her hand a squeeze and she remembered to kneel.

“Queen Yara”, Daenerys said as she approached them, stopping right before her. She wore a small smile, and death hadn't marred her beauty one bit. “I have not had the chance to say this, but I am truly sorry for the loss of your brother. He fought bravely during the Battle for the Dawn, and gave his life to save us all.”

She dipped her head just the tiniest amount; acknowledgement from one queen to another. “Thank you. I can't express how much I regret all that you have suffered. I'm looking forward to making the traitors pay.”

Daenerys' smile widened. “As am I.” She turned towards the princess. “You must be Prince Anders' younger daughter.”

Gwyn vowed to uphold her father's pledge of fealty as the future Lady of Yronwood and Wardeness of the Stone Way, swearing by the sun and the sand, to fire and blood, by the old gods and the new. “Your father and sister have already proven themselves to be loyal subjects, princess”, Daenerys said. “I accept your vow. Arise.”

Gwyneth did as told, suddenly facing the queen directly, and Yara noticed they were of almost the same height. “My gown suits you well, Your Grace.”

It certainly did. Daenerys laughed and put her hand on hand on the princess' arm. “I must apologise for raiding your wardrobe, my lady. With no household of my own, my options are limited.”

As they made their way back to the castle and Drogon flew of somewhere, Gwyn promised to send her seamstress up to the Red Keep once everything was done. This was a good start, Yara thought. As much as she was sure that the queen was filled with rage, she appeared well-disposed towards her allies.

 

It had been late and they'd decided to rest before dealing with the prisoners the next day – Yara and Gwyn in the chambers of the Lady Reaper of Pyke, and Daenerys in the most well-preserved rooms the Guest Keep had to offer. They had been Gwyneth's, before, but the princess had not made use of her own quarters in a very long time.

As much as their relationship was no longer a secret on the Iron Islands and the presence of the queen's Essosi army could not be concealed as sellswords much longer, Yara knew that word of the arrival of a beautiful silver-haired woman on dragonback would spread even faster, even if it had taken place at night. Daenerys appeared just as aware of this, and declared that the time for hiding would need to come to an end either way.

“I will remain after speaking to the prisoners”, she announced as they broke their fast in Yara's solar, “although I will not impose on you for long. Prince Anders has sent his fastest ship up with a small contingent of a few Unsullied.” She paused for a bite of herring pie. “On my way here, I have taken a look down at the North. Once the Unsullied arrive, they shall join me on Drogon and we will depart to take care of some very urgent business.”

“Is that possible?” Yara considered the dragon's size, and realised it had been a stupid question. Daenerys, however, just nodded. “I have taken others on his back before, although I do not believe that they could ride him without me. It seems to be quite a daunting experience, but the Unsullied know no fear.”

“If my lord father has sent the _Swift Spear_ , it should only be a matter of a few days”, Gwyn remarked. Yara wondered what use the additional Unsullied had, considering that a few thousand of the queen's Ghiscari troops were already stationed on the islands. “What do you intend to do with the prisoners, Your Grace?”

“They could be very useful, particularly the Ryswell boy.” Yara took a swig of ale and hummed her agreement. “They are free to join me if they so choose. If not, they will burn.”

 

She told the two as much once they'd been dragged back in front of the Seastone Chair. “I understand, Lord Rickard, that you are the husband to Sansa Stark, and the father to her newborn heir.”

“I am”, Ryswell said, his pretty face distorted into a bad impression of a sneer.

“Then you must know that your wife's life is forfeit”, Daenerys continued, menacingly pacing on the steps before Yara's throne while Gwyneth was leaning against it. “After her death, of course, your son will become the Lord of Winterfell, and you his regent.”

Ryswell remained silent for a while, before saying, quite sheepishly: “Sansa has drawn up a royal decree declaring that the regency shall be led by a council. Her household and I.”

Daenerys stopped. “Truly? I have never liked your wife, my lord, and now I find it difficult to imagine that you would feel any differently. Custom would dictate that you would rule until your child comes of age, would it not?”

Flint snorted from next to Rickard. The enmity between them, as well as Ryswell's wounded pride, were truly a gift to them. “As it stands, the queen is the man in the marriage.”

Daenerys arched a brow. “There are only two queens in Westeros, Flint, and you are presently kneeling at the feet of both. As regards Lady Stark's marriage...”, she turned back to Ryswell, “you must be quite unsatisfied with this, my lord. Why else would you volunteer the information about Jon Snow's whereabouts?”

Rickard seemed to very intently study the floor, until Daenerys gently tilted up his chin. Yara leaned to the side of her throne to get a better look, catching a glimpse of Ryswell's wide-eyed face. “Currently, my lord, you are a rebel and a traitor against your rightful queen”, Daenerys said slowly, and not unkindly. “But this is a crime that can be forgiven, considering your circumstances. Your wife does hold a legitimate claim to Winterfell and to the North in the capacity of Wardeness, but she must be executed for her treason. The same does not apply to your son, who is both obviously innocent and Sansa's trueborn heir.” Now Gwyn and Yara were both trying to see past Daenerys' back, just about able to watch her stroke Ryswell's cheek. “A royal decree by a false queen holds no value, though I would uphold the one making him a Stark. If you so choose, Lord Rickard, you can rule from Winterfell as my Warden and your son's regent until he comes of age. Of course, you will also have a new bride, and children to bear your own name.” She took a step back, and his head dropped back down. “Or you can burn. Your choice.”

With that, she turned to Flint. “I cannot promise you nearly as much, of course. Only your life and the possibility to return to your family, and my vow to spare them if you can convince them to come to my side. Still, I believe it is far preferable to a traitor's death.”

“A _traitor_.” Flint spat on the floor. “I will not be a traitor and sell the North to a southron tyrant. Do with me what you want, I'd rather die than serve you.”

Daenerys took that in stride. “And you”, Flint continued before she could ask, “you, Ryswell, should do the same. Don't bring dishonour on your House. Think of your child, and think of your _wife_. Aye, she's wounded your pride, I would be feeling the same. But she's our queen.”

With Daenerys now standing between the two, Yara and Gwyn had a much better view. Rickard looked up and shot Flint a vicious glare. “Don't you see, you complete fucking fool? Sansa is only queen because Bran let her, and Bran has no reason to rule in King's Landing. The Seven Kingdoms only exist because of one House, and when we thought they were gone, the North declared its independence.” He nodded towards Daenerys. “As it turns out, they are still here. That makes _her_ our rightful queen, and Sansa really is a traitor.”

Yara had no idea if he was trying to convince himself, or get in Daenerys' good graces, or justify his actions before Flint. It didn't matter, anyway. “I accept”, Ryswell said, then added: “my queen.”

Flint tried to lunge at him despite his bound hands, but Daenerys threw him back with a vicious slap to the face, sending him to the ground.

“Splendid. Soon, Lord Rickard, you will witness the death you have so wisely chosen to escape.”

 

As Gwyn had predicted, it didn't take long for the Unsullied to arrive. There were just nine, Grey Worm among them. Yara wondered what exactly Daenerys was planning, but hadn't dared to ask.

They erected a pyre of dried driftwood on the practice grounds, once again working at night, although at least half the Iron Islands must have known of the queen's presence by now. Attending the execution were the Unsullied, Gwyneth, Yara, Daenerys, Ryswell, and Nabho, the red priest who'd arrived on Pyke so long ago. The prolonged presence of the supposed merchant on the island had raised questions for a while, but then they'd died down as the people had lost interest. Behind the pyre, Drogon loomed over them all.

As Flint was led to the pyre, he was still attempting to stoically conceal his fear, though Yara had no doubt that this would change soon enough. “I do not care about him, and I would kill him with a quick blast of dragonfire”, Daenerys said by way of explanation, “but then I would not be able to accomplish what I intend to.”

With that, she reached into a large leather bag held by Grey Worm, and revealed one of the most beautiful things Yara had ever seen. It was an egg the size of an ostrich's, covered in scales, midnight blue and with silvery veins. “It that what I think it is?”, she asked, sounding almost breathless.

“Yes.” Daenerys placed the egg within the pyre, covered in a few logs of driftwood. Yara decided not to ask where it came from. “The last time I did this, the circumstances were quite different, and I do not know if this will work. But there is no harm in trying, and only death can pay for life.”

The prospect of possibly seeing a dragon hatch was dizzying. Before Flint could be tied to the stake, Gwyneth spoke up. “Please, Your Grace”, she said, and Daenerys whirled around to glare at her.

“When we were first introduced, this”, she hesitated, “Northern savage called me a whore. I said I would have his tongue.”

The queen's expression softened. “Then you shall have it, princess. _Torgo Nudho_?”

A pair of pincers was quickly found, and as he was forced to his knees before the Unsullied, Flint's resolve began to crumble. Standing next to Yara, Ryswell appeared highly uncomfortable.

“I'm not sure what to think of you yet”, she told him, “but you seem smarter than this one.”

As Grey Worm forced open his mouth and pulled out Flint's tongue, Rickard swallowed. “Not a high bar, Your Grace.”

He'd adapted to the correct courtesies very quickly over the last few days, and had been happy to tell them everything there was to know about the state of Winterfell, its people, and the self-professed northern kingdom. When Grey Worm cut Flint's tongue and his screams turned into gurgling, Yara could understand why.

Aware of the threat of the blood loss or choking ending his life earlier than planned, the Unsullied quickly forced the traitor up onto the pyre. Nabho began chanting, and Daenerys answered Yara's glance with a shrug. At least it didn't seem like she'd turned to the red god.

“Dracarys”, the queen said. Drogon directed his fire not at Flint himself, but at the pyre, aiming with startling precision. “Take his tongue and his sword”, Daenerys commanded while the flames crept higher, “put them in a box and send them to Flint's Finger. I want the northerners nervous.”

Yara smirked. “That should do it. It's been a while since the ironborn have been able to strike terror in their hearts, and I can't say it doesn't feel good.”

Then, they spoke no more. When the flames reached his feet, Flint's gurgling turned into a sound Yara had never heard before, and Gwyneth's hand closed around her own once more. As the fire engulfed his body, first his legs and then his torso, he coughed up blood that must've been cooked in his throat, then turned to screaming in earnest – although not for long, as he mercifully died soon after.

The moment the screams stopped, there was another noise, too. A _crack_ , almost less of a sound than a feeling vibrating through them all, briefly making everyone forget the gruesome scene before them.

Daenerys' face lit up, lips spreading into a smile Yara had never seen on her before, eyes welling with tears. Drogon tilted his head, looking at the pyre with what she could only interpret as interest. Gwyneth gasped as she realised what had just happened, tightening her hand around Yara's. Ryswell's expression shifted from fear and revulsion to something approximating awe, and even the Unsullied couldn't entirely maintain their usual stoicism.

Still, they all remained in place, wordless, until the fire had died down. Then, Daenerys ran towards the pyre, hastily throwing aside what had to be bits of Flint's incinerated feet and still-smouldering logs. The heat did not seem to affect her as she grabbed glowing pieces of wood, and finally reached into the pyre with great care.

Gwyn tucked at Yara's hand, and they reverently walked up towards her. They could hear a soft chirping, and then Daenerys turned around.

A newly hatched dragon, she learned that day, looked very much like a grown one, although the difference in size between the blue creature caressing Daenerys' cheek and Drogon behind them was almost incomprehensible. The new dragon looked curiously at the unfamiliar world, cocking its head here and there, reptilian eyes taking in its surroundings as it attempted a heartfelt, yet unimpressive roar.

The ground shook as Drogon walked up behind them, stomping over the pyre and Flint's remains without notice. With a gentleness that should be impossible for a creature of his size, he nudged Daenerys face, and then his tiny counterpart climbed up her head, towards his nuzzle. The new one was smaller than some of Drogon's horns.

“I shall call this one Missandor”, Daenerys said, holding up a hand to steady her child as it tried to climb Drogon's head. “I will require well-charred meat, and much of it, cut into very small pieces.”

Yara nodded mechanically. Meat, sure, whatever she wanted.

A dragon had just been born. A dragon, here on Pyke, had just come into the world. She'd seen it happen.

It almost made her forget about the man they'd burned to death.

 

After that, Daenerys did not linger on the Iron Islands much longer. A few days after the birth of her dragon, she was off – riding Drogon with her Unsullied and Missandor clutched close to her chest, declaring that the new dragon was needed. No-one asked what for; they all knew better than to doubt her. As she left, she gave orders for what should happen next, and Yara made the captains prepare their ships.

Ryswell remained with them, while Flint's tongue and sword were sent to the greenlands, as ordered. His ashes would make a good fertiliser for her thralls to work with; he didn't deserve to be thrown into the sea.

A raven arrived from Winterfell just as Daenerys had left, asking what ransom was required for the king consort Rickard, and Robert Flint. Yara and Gwyn had a good laugh about it, then burned it before Rickard could see.

They didn't want to risk him changing his mind, now that the Dragon Queen had gone. Although after what they'd all witnessed, one would have to be insane to oppose her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, look. I have no idea how dragons are normally hatched; it seems like the old Targaryens just laid them in their kids' cribs and hoped for the best. It probably doesn't usually require burning people alive, but that worked well enough with the first three, and since Dany got these eggs from Valyria, they're very old and presumably need some extra fire+blood. Maybe Nabho's chanting helped, just as Mirri Maz Duur added in some magic the last time. Either way, it's only one baby dragon for now since only one person died (arguably, the last time there were three deaths paying for three lives with Drogo, Rhaego, and Mirri Maz Duur).


	23. Cella III | Wolkan V

Cella III

Speaking in unison with the rest of the crowd, she intoned: “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Cella had become a follower of the Lord of Light a good six moons ago, ultimately convinced of His teachings. It all made sense, didn't it? King's Landing had seen nothing but darkness for as long as she'd been alive. That darkness had had to be removed, but the Great Other had planted seeds of treachery, and the One Who Was Promised had perished.

But the Lord of Light had not been done with her, the priests had told them one glorious day. Their saviour would return.

“Soon, the time of the Great Other's creatures shall be over”, today's priest promised them. “From Dorne come the legions of light, in service of the one true queen. The savage usurper king and his demon of a Hand have invited them into the city, believing they will fight you, their own people. Instead, they will strike down the pretenders, the followers of the false gods, and we shall rejoice as the Mother of Dragons retakes her rightful throne.”

“Lord, bless the Dornish!”, Cella heard her neighbour shout, and nodded along enthusiastically. “Light their way!” cried another.

“When the time comes, you must not let their ruse fail too soon”, the priest warned. “The Usurper will be watching from the Red Keep. You must stand down and appear afraid, and not cry out your joy until the time comes.”

“How will we know?”, someone asked, which seemed a fair enough question to Cella. The priest did not chide him. “You will, my child, as R'hllor will guide us all.”

Of course He would. “Already, the Usurper is cowering in fear, praying to his false gods. He believes that his own people will come for him, for he knows that he is no true king. He does not know that it will be the queen herself who shall strike him down, and you all shall see him burn.”

“Burn the Usurper!”, shouts rang out. “Burn the traitors!”

“Yes! Dear children of R'hllor, the time of the Great Other's creatures has near passed. The dragons shall return with fire and blood, and all will be well in King's Landing and the realm.”

“Long live the queen!”, shouts rang out. “All hail Her Grace!” “Bring the Lord's flame once more!”

Cella joined in with the cries. Soon, the light of the Lord would shine on them again.

 

 

Wolkan V

More than a year ago, he'd thought things were bad.

Now, he wanted nothing more than to slap his past self, and have him send ten riders south with letters to the Citadel begging for a reassignment. Maybe to his native Vale, where things seemed quite peaceful. Or the Reach, perhaps. Dorne should be nice in the winter, too.

But instead, he was in Winterfell, watching the Queen in the North pace through her solar as if she was trying to carve her footsteps into the ancient stone. The weather was turning worse once again, and without aid from the Six Kingdoms, food stores were running so low that they'd started rationing for good. The only one who wasn't hungry was young Prince Eddard, whose wet nurse was implacably cheerful and well-fed.

But that wasn't even the worst of their problems. “His _tongue_ ”, the queen seethed. “Those savages. Apparently he had insulted some ironborn lady, as if they even had true ladies on those gods-damned rocks of theirs.”

“Do we know if he lives?”, Snow asked, and she shook her head. “Perhaps, perhaps not. There has been no mention of my lord husband either, and no reply to my raven.”

“It is possible, of course, that your message never reached them”, Wolkan remarked, and the queen gave the most irritated shrug he'd ever seen. “Of course, maester. Tell me, when the Citadel came up with the ingenious idea of using birds for communication, did none of them consider the _weather_? Southron fools.”

She fell heavily into her seat and had a large swig of warmed ale. They'd run out of wine.

“We must respond somehow, or we will be the laughing stock of all Westeros”, she declared. “But how?”

None of the men had a real answer to that. “Perhaps, Your Grace”, Ser Hallis said, “you could ask Lord Flint to patrol the shores in secret, attempting to imprison one of their own. If we could get word to the Neck, the crannogmen might be of use.”

“Aye, they certainly would, ser”, she replied. “And I have no doubt that House Reed would heed my call. Unfortunately, getting word anywhere seems to be a problem. Are we running out of riders, Alard?”

The steward nodded. “And ravens, too, maester?” Wolkan had to confirm that.

“Is there anything we are not running out of?”, the queen asked.

He had a few suggestions in mind. Snow, for one; they had plenty of that. Ice, too. Not to speak of fears and anxieties, of nightmares revolving around empty bowls or ironborn troops.

But Wolkan thought it wise not to say any of that. “Your Grace”, he attempted, “for all his pride, I believe your lord husband knows to choose his words carefully, as opposed to young Flint. At the very least, we would know if he had been harmed, or if either of them were dead.”

“How can you even be sure?”, she asked. “It is possible that they've sent us his head and it just never arrived. And even if they killed him, there would be nothing we could do.”

She'd said the last part with a thin voice. The queen pushed her cup of cooling ale aside and leaned her head on her hands, staring down onto the table. “This was not how it was meant to be”, she said very quietly. “The North and my House have triumphed through so much. We have been beaten and betrayed, and our home has been taken from us, the _army of the dead_ attacked us, and yet we emerged with two Starks ruling the whole of Westeros.” A pause as the men looked at each other, all quite uncomfortable. “I do not even know how my brother's reign is going, but if he ever showed an interest in the North, I have not seen any evidence of that. Do you know what my lord father once told me?”

Wolkan did not, but he was sure it was something meaningful and wise, the way everyone was talking about the late Lord Eddard. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” She spread out her hands, and he could see actual tears in her eyes. She hadn't even cried during her pregnancy. “And where is this pack now? There is only me, and everyone else has left. Even Arya, who said that us Starks needed to stick together – just before running off, perhaps never to return. I am the lone wolf.”

None of them had any idea as to how to react to her outbreak. That was not the queen they knew.

“You have Prince Eddard, Your Grace”, Ser Hallis said, but she shook her head. “I love my son dearly, but the way things are going, he will not survive this winter.” Her lip quivered.

Wolkan turned his gaze away, and saw her gesticulating from the corner of his eye. “Leave me”, she said, sobs beginning to strain her voice.

He practically fled the solar.

 

It took Maester Wolkan a long while to fall into an uneasy sleep. This time, his nightmares included the queen crying over the body of her child, just as a man in Greyjoy insignia stormed up to him and buried an axe in Wolkan's chest.

Just then, he was woken by shouts ringing through the Great Keep. Immediately, his nightmare came back to him, and Wolkan was out of bed more quickly than he'd been in decades. Only as he slipped into his robes and grabbed a dagger did he realise that an ironborn attack was actually quite impossible.

Still, he froze in fear when his door burst open, but it was only Edwin Snow. “The godswood, maester”, he said breathlessly. “Quickly. We need every man.”

With that, he'd run off. Wolkan followed, frantically searching his mind for anything that could have happened there that would cause such a reaction.

He found out soon enough. First he felt the unfamiliar heat, then he saw the flames over the walls. When Wolkan entered the godswood, he was met with a sight that shocked even him, although he wasn't a northerner.

The weirwood was on fire. Winterfell's weirwood, older than the castle itself; older than the First Men, the weirwood which had stood here for more millennia than anyone could guess, was burning down. As the fire heated the sap always leaking from the tree's face, it was running rapidly, streaming down the trunk as if the old gods themselves were weeping.

Wolkan was swiftly integrated into a line of men passing buckets of water, but they all must've known it was no use. Whatever the cause of the fire, it must've started at the top of the tree, as the uppermost branches had already completely disappeared. No matter how much water they were throwing at it, they didn't stand a chance.

In the midst of it all was the queen, clad only in a thin night gown, slippers soaked by the snow that had melted all around the fire. First, she was shouting orders to extinguish the weirwood. Then, she commanded them to focus on the surrounding trees to keep the fire from spreading, which they managed well enough.

At the end, when dawn had come and all the branches had burned off, leaving nothing but a still- smouldering trunk and a distorted, weeping face, Sansa was on her knees in the molten snow.

 


	24. Jon I

When he'd gone beyond the Wall, he'd thought he'd find peace.

Where else? The vast, snow-covered expanse of the Frostfangs and the quiet of the haunted forest had seemed like as good a bet as any. No-one cared about who he was, here – not the hares nor the deer, the shadow cats nor the snow bears, and certainly not the free folk. Most of them didn't know what he'd done, and those who did had never mentioned it.

The problem was: he cared. As much as he tried to forget, as much as he wanted to lose himself to a simple life of hunting for food, seeking shelter at night, and halfheartedly laughing at Tormund's jests, he couldn't.

Tormund had said it was his damned Stark honour, as Jon had never told him he wasn't a Stark at all. One particularly drunken night, after raging at his perpetually gloomy expression once again, he'd told him he still was a kneeler; that he'd never be able to shake it off.

It had also been Tormund who had told him that he belonged to the true north, but maybe he'd been wrong. Then again, Jon didn't think he belonged anywhere, and he knew that he'd been a fool for thinking there was peace for him in any place in this world. He didn't have a right to peace – or to life, for that matter.

The worst was when they made camp at weirwood groves. Their faces stared at him in dark indictment, sap weeping for his sin.

No man was as accursed as the kinslayer, the queenslayer, the oathbreaker.

He sometimes wondered how Sansa felt, for breaking a vow made in a godswood. He wondered if she, too, looked upon the weirwood and felt like she should be split in two just there, seeing the faces of their ancestors condemning her. He didn't know if he hoped that she did, for it would mean that she still had some honour left in her, or if he hoped that she didn't so that she may find the peace he was denied.

Still, even if what she'd done had forever condemned her in front of the gods, his sin weighed far more heavily. In his nightmares, he lived through it all again; his dagger sliding through her ribs, the love and hope and light leaving her eyes. In the better dreams, it was her killing him.

He had expected death, then, first through Drogon, then Grey Worm. But he'd long realised that death would've been a mercy he didn't deserve; that the gods had brought him up here to suffer under his guilt for many more years.

As always, it was Ghost who roused him from his dark thoughts. His direwolf nudged his face as Jon sat by the frozen stream, and he looked up to the sky to see that it was getting late.

“You're right”, he told him. “We better get back.”

He'd tried his hand at ice fishing, though he still wasn't much good at it. There was no catch for today, which Tormund would certainly complain about, even though Jon had managed to slay a doe three days past, and they still had plenty of meat.

He followed Ghost, expecting him to move westwards to camp. Instead, the direwolf turned to the east.

“Ghost!”, he cried out. “You're going the wrong way.”

The wolf stopped, looked at him intently, and kept moving.

Jon cursed. Ghost was acting like he was trying to show him something, but they didn't have time for this if they wanted to make it back before dark. “If you can smell some dead animal, you can show me on the morrow”, he said, but followed his wolf nonetheless. “It won't spoil in this cold.”

Ghost was unperturbed, and Jon dearly hoped that he didn't want to fight a shadowcat again. The direwolf would win, of course, but he'd get a few scratches and whine about them for weeks, as if he hadn't faced much worse.

They walked through the woods for much longer than Jon would've liked. He vaguely knew this part of the haunted forest and would likely be able to sleep somewhere under the trees, but he wouldn't be able to find his way back in the dark.

Ghost suddenly stopped, and snarled. “What?”, Jon said, looking around for the inevitable shadowcat, or perhaps a smaller wolf. “You've brought me all this way for a fight, really?”

They were near the eastern edge of the forest, close to a large weirwood that Jon would rather not face. Ghost had other ideas, however, and looked at Jon as if telling him to be careful, before leading him to the small clearing containing the ancient tree.

But instead of a weeping face with accusing eyes, Jon found a burned-out husk.

He stopped cold in his tracks, surveying the scene. The weirwood had stood in the middle of the clearing, but now its blackened stump was all that was left, and the snow around it had melted. As Jon moved closer, he felt mud under his feet – _mud_ , when all the earth beyond the Wall was permanently frozen. When fires were virtually unheard of, considering the climate.

Ghost snarled at the stump, but Jon carefully moved closer as he heard a strange chirping sound from within it. He knew that _something_ was very wrong here, and that he probably should run – but death held a certain appeal, and his curiosity was overwhelming.

When he'd moved close enough to peer into the husk, he thought he might've gone mad. Was that... ? No, of course it wasn't. But it also, very obviously, was.

A very small blue dragon was sitting where the weirwood once stood, looking at him with curiosity and letting out a tiny wisp of smoke.

“What?”, Jon actually said out loud, at the dragon and possibly also at the increasingly nervous Ghost, as if either of them could answer. “How.”

How, indeed. There were no dragons north of the Wall – there actually was only one dragon left in this world, and this definitely was not Drogon. He thought back at how Daenerys had told him her dragons had hatched: in a big pyre to her husband, their child, and the witch who'd murdered both. For a second, he thought some kind of magical event might have occurred here; a long-forgotten dragon egg buried in the tree. Then again, he couldn't see a shell.

Suddenly, Ghost's snarls stopped being directed at the dragon, and turned to the treeline surrounding them. As he reached for the hilt of his sword, it became very clear to Jon that this was the most obvious trap he'd ever seen – and that a dragon could only mean one thing.

With that thought, he almost wasn't surprised when a spear flew out from the treeline and pierced Ghost's neck before burying itself deep in the mud. His best friend died without making a sound.

The dragon, on the other hand, began to chirp excitedly as figures emerged from behind the trees, dressed in furs but very clearly not of the free folk. He drew Longclaw while they approached him – men with dark skin and weapons he'd recognise anywhere. Turning and searching for Grey Worm's face under their hoods, Longclaw was knocked out of Jon's hand from behind him before a boot met his back and the shaft of a spear came down on his head. There he was, then.

 

His head throbbing and hands bound behind his back, the Unsullied led Jon through the trees, a hood drawn over his face. Even though he couldn't see, he knew it had to be dark by now. Jon wondered when Tormund would begin looking for him, and how long it would take him to find the burned weirwood and Ghost's body. His friend would knew what it meant.

Not that it mattered. Jon was under no illusion that he'd ever see Tormund again, or any of the free folk, or really much else. His time was coming to an end – a thought that gave him more peace than he'd known in a long time.

The men didn't speak to him, although they occasionally exchanged words in Valyrian. A few hours into their walk, he said: “She lives, then.”

He supposed he of all people shouldn't be surprised that someone could come back from the dead.

“You will not speak, traitor”, Grey Worm bit out, and kicked Jon in the shin for good measure. He fell before being roughly hoisted back up, and heard the tiny dragon make a soft sound he couldn't quite interpret.

He knew it was absurd, but this turn of events had Jon more relieved than anything else. If the Unsullied and a newly-hatched dragon were north of the Wall, that meant Daenerys was alive. It also meant he would finally receive the punishment he deserved. Every bit of pain they inflicted on him was welcome. Only the pain of losing Ghost was not – his direwolf should not have died for his crimes.

They must've walked many miles by the time they finally came to a halt. Jon could feel a sharp wind, which likely meant that they had reached the eastern end of the haunted forest at Storrold's Point. He could also feel the presence of something very, very large.

The Unsullied made to push him to his knees, but Jon fell of his own volition. When they yanked the hood off his head, she stood in front of him.

Shamefully, his first thought was that she was still so beautiful. Her silver hair illuminated by the moon and the stars, a circlet inlaid with rubies on her brow. Its splendour clashed with the simple leathers she was wearing, but the sight of Daenerys would've been breathtaking even if she was wearing rags and caked in mud.

Then came the other thoughts. The overwhelming guilt, the joy and relief at seeing her alive, the deep shame of his betrayal. All the self-loathing at what he'd done, and at how he'd failed her even long before the murder.

He could see a similar wealth of emotions on her face, even if she tried to put on an icy mask. Hatred was chief among them, which was good.

After a very long time, he rasped: “Dany -”

Her backhanded slap stung his cheek and almost brought him to the ground. She was wearing a ring and its impact split his skin; he could feel blood running down into his beard. She hit him again from the other side, and again, and again. When the heel of her boot found his face, his head hit the ground, the snow bringing a pleasant sensation he didn't deserve.

He didn't understand what she next said to the Unsullied, but soon, he found himself on Drogon's back, held in place by various chains and some of the soldiers, who tightened their grip when the dragon rose into the air. Maybe they thought he might throw himself off otherwise, and while that idea was tempting, he knew he'd have to meet his end by Daenerys' hands. He had expected to be burned right there and then, in truth, and felt a mix of relief, disappointment, and terror at the thought of what she might do to him instead.

Soon, they flew over the Wall, right where the Night King had Viserion bring down a part of it. Distantly, Jon thought of how he'd heard that the Watch had plans to rebuilt it, although he didn't quite see the point.

As they travelled down high above the eastern shore of Westeros, Jon decided to stop wondering where she was bringing him, and what she'd do next, and how he'd finally get to die. Whatever Daenerys had in store for him, he knew he deserved it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Jon ever stop being mopey as fuck? No. Could Dany have had him captured in a much less extra way? Obviously. But it was more fun to write this way.


	25. Anders V | Yara VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry about Ghost. He did have to die – because he would've defended Jon to the death either way, and because Dany knew it'd hurt Jon, and because he symbolises Jon's connection to the Starks. Sadly, it won't be the only death of someone sympathetic.

Anders V

When the Dornish army made camp that night, they were about a week's march from King's Landing. As the queen had ordered, they were taking their time.

After Daenerys had left for the Iron Islands, Anders had taken a ship to Yronwood and up the Blueblood to the Prince's Pass, then rode hard to join his troops. He'd taken Lord Gendry with him, counting on the man's understanding that he wouldn't be able to escape on his own, and sent Ynys to Sunspear with her sons to rule Dorne in his stead.

Of course, neither the Usurper nor the Imp had asked him to personally join his men, but what they wished for didn't really matter. Anders just wanted to be there to hand the Red Keep to the queen, something he thought she'd appreciate.

He didn't hold a war council – not all of his men knew of his true plans. Many of them didn't like the fake ones, that much he was aware of; there was no love for the Usurper in Dorne. They'd be happy enough once he revealed the truth at the gates of the city.

Instead, he sat in his tent with Daario Naharis and Lord Gendry, who might as well know everything, considering that he'd either join or die. The priestess Sennora was there, too, acting as a messenger.

“The one true queen has captured the traitor, my prince”, she relayed. “They have arrived on Dragonstone. There is no change of plans.” Good. “Further, my brother Nabho on the Iron Islands reports that Queen Yara is ready to strike, and will do so once asked to. It is likely that by now, this has already begun. The Princess Gwyneth will remain on the islands to observe Lord Rickard.”

Anders could imagine that his younger daughter had been less than happy with that, but he was thankful for it. He had trained his daughters in combat so they could protect themselves if necessary, not so they could ride into battle.

He dismissed the priestess, and Naharis spoke up. “Have you ever met any of the traitors, prince?”

“Tyrion”, Anders replied. “At the Great Council. Grey Worm should have had his head then and there, but none of us knew the queen would come back to life.”

“She has a way of doing the impossible”, the commander said with a smile, playing with a dagger. For a while now, Anders had wondered just how close those two were. “Although she used to hold herself back too much; relied too much on others telling her to show mercy.” He sunk the dagger into the prince's table. “I call it weakness, and I'm glad she's left it behind her.”

“She didn't show any mercy when she burned King's Landing”, Lord Gendry said. He'd still not quite come around. Obviously annoyed, Naharis plucked the dagger out of the wood and pointed it towards him. “Why should she?”, he asked. “It was war, boy.”

Anders cut in before Gendry could respond, not wanting any hostility between the queen's commander and a possible ally. “The sack of King's Landing presented a regrettable casualty of war, my lord. And if it had not been for the treachery that followed, it would have been rebuilt a year ago.”

Baratheon couldn't deny that the Usurper and his council had failed abysmally, and Anders knew it was his sticking point. “Once the rightful queen rules, order will return to the realm. And as you very well know, my lord, she shows great kindness to her allies.”

Before they could discuss this any further, they heard a messenger request entry into the tent. He brought news from Anders' good-son, and quite interesting ones at that. “It appears that the child of the upjumped sellsword Bronn has been stillborn”, he announced after reading the message. “A great tragedy for his Hightower wife, but rather good news for us.” He commanded his guards to bring back the priestess; Her Grace needed to know of this. Under these circumstances, they should be able to ally with Lord Hightower; offering to raise up a more suitable Lord of Highgarden and marrying his daughter to him once Bronn was removed.

 

After they had marched towards the capital for another day, Lord Gendry approached the prince while the tents were still being set up, slowly turning their surrounding area into a sea of warm colours and cook fires.

“My lord”, Baratheon said, “we're close to the Stormlands, aren't we?”

“We are.” They'd mostly travelled through the Reach, but they weren't far. It was relatively pleasant to lead an army in times of apparent peace and with the official blessing of the Crown.

“I've been thinking.” Lord Gendry stared out into the approximate direction of his lands. “A ruler has responsibility to his people.”

“Very much so, my lord.” Anders still couldn't quite put his head around the idea of someone raised as a lowborn bastard being the head of one of the Great Houses of Westeros, but at least the boy was very obviously of Baratheon blood. “And that means”, Gendry continued, “that a good ruler has to put the fate of his people before his own feelings, doesn't it?”

 _Excellent_ , the prince thought. He could see where this train of thought must've led him. “Indeed”, he said. “Before his own feelings and his own wishes, although it can become complicated once his bannermen and their possible actions come into the picture. I believe, however, that the decision you must make is quite clear-cut.”

Lord Gendry sighed. “It should be so easy. Daenerys has made me a lord, and she's the rightful queen, _and_ if I don't pledge fealty to her she'll probably burn the Stormlands to the ground. But then she's done this terrible thing and whenever I think of bending the knee to her, I can see Arya staring at me like -”

“My lord”, Anders interrupted, “I am sure that Arya Stark is a formidable woman.” She'd killed this Night King, after all. “But Her Grace was right that you must let go of her. You cannot let the fate of your people be determined by a former lover's hypothetical disappointment.”

“I know.” Gendry ran a hand through his shortly cropped hair. “I'll do it”, he announced. “I'll bend my knee to the Dragon Queen and have my men fight for her. I won't like doing it, but here we are.” He threw back his head to look at the sky. “Gods, Arya _will_ kill me when she comes back.”

Anders quickly grasped his shoulder, then made for finding the red priestess. At the rate at which he was having good news delivered to the queen, she really ought to reward him in some way.

 

 

Yara VIII

With a sickening crunch, Yara buried her axe in the northman's throat. Blood ran down his breastplate, covering the sentinel trees displayed on the crest.

He must've been one of the young Tallhart sons, she thought, before yanking her axe free and sinking a deep blow into another man's neck. A different soldier ran towards her, sword raised high above his head to split her in half, but she ducked and sliced open his hip before stabbing her dagger through his eye. He, too, died with a scream.

Looking around for more attackers, Yara found that there weren't any. She was on the ramparts of Torrhen's Square, fallen enemies all around her. The only people left standing where her ironborn and Daenerys' Ghiscari.

The iron fleet had sailed out a few days ago, and aided by the Essosi troops, they made a large and formidable force. She herself had sailed up the river leading to Torrhen's Square, while others had been sent to Flint's Finger, Barrowtown, and Moat Cailin, and another section to Deepwood Motte. She did not yet know the outcome of these other battles, but if they were anything like hers, the entire west of the North should be soon under her alliance's control.

It was far from a fair fight, she knew, considering the depopulation the North had gone through after all the wars and the army of the dead. But Yara preferred unfair fights.

 

As the soldiers searched the castle for loot and began to tally the dead, she found the Tallharts' godswood. The hostages had been assembled there – apparently the one she'd killed had been called Beren, and his elder brother had died in the fighting too, while his father Leobald was gravely injured and likely wouldn't make it through the night. This left House Tallhart with Leobald's wife, a Hornwood, and the boys' cousin, Eddara; the young ruling Lady of Torrhen's Square.

It was these two and their household that she directed her words to, still covered in blood. “I'm Yara Greyjoy, Queen of the Iron Islands”, she announced, and the northerners didn't seem the least bit surprised. “I've not taken this castle for -”

“You've taken this castle”, Lady Eddara interrupted her, “with Eastern sellswords. We've always known the ironborn had no honour, but this is low even for you.” The girl spat at her feet.

Yara wasn't sure if she should be angry or impressed. Eddara was seven-and-ten at most, though tall, dark blond hair in a braid and blue eyes filled with hatred.

“See, that's the surprise”, Yara said. “These fine soldiers here”, she gestured at two Ghiscari who probably had no idea what she was saying, “aren't sellswords. As I was just gonna tell you, I've not taken this castle for myself, and the rest of the iron fleet isn't taking Flint's Finger, Barrowtown, Moat Cailin, or Deepwood Motte for ourselves. We've no use for the greenlands.” In the interest of raising suspense, she took a short break to watch the Ghiscari heat pitch in a large bucket they'd found in the kitchens. Eddara and her aunt exchanged a nervous glance.

The Lady of Torrhen's Square tried a disparaging laugh, although it sounded more like a sob. “Are we being invaded by Dothraki again?”

One of the men almost dropped the stick he was using to stir the pitch. “We are _not_ Dothraki”, he said, sounding quite offended.

“You heard him.” Yara should really try to keep track of which of the Ghiscari could speak the Common Tongue. “And the Dothraki didn't invade last time, they fought to keep the North and all of Westeros alive, at great sacrifice. But before we go on, we've got something to take care of.”

She nodded at the soldiers, who began covering the Tallharts' weirwood in pitch. A murmur went through the assembled Northerners, and Yara shrugged apologetically. “If you thought us butchering your family was bad, you'll _really_ hate this.” Yara had tried to imagine how she'd react to being in the same situation, but the Drowned God's only shrine was the sea.

“You cannot do this”, the Hornwood woman hissed. “This weirwood has stood here for thousands of years, long before anyone even set foot on your thrice-damned islands -”

She stopped as one of the Ghiscari held a torch to the trunk, and the tree was soon covered in flame. As Yara was admiring the spectacle, she heard footsteps coming up behind her, and whirled around just to see Eddara Tallhart try to grab for her dagger.

She caught her by the throat. “Truly?”, she asked, and couldn't help but smile before she gave the girl a shove. “If you want to die, I'll give you another noble cause.” Eddara stumbled back to the crowd, who were all watching the burning weirwood with varying levels of pain and despair. The Ghiscari didn't care for those gods, and stood by with water buckets to keep the fire from spreading.

“The Stark boy who calls himself the King of the Six Kingdoms can see through the heart trees”, she explained. “We're not doing this _just_ out of malice. But I am taking these Northern castles for my ally, whose troops these are”, she pointed at the Ghiscari, “and she is quite angry at the North. Like her Dothraki, the Dragon Queen fought for you, and would have died for you.” As Theon did. “And your so-called queen paid her back with deceit and treachery. Now Daenerys is taking back all the kingdoms that are rightfully hers.”

“The Dragon Queen is dead”, Lady Eddara said, and Yara gave her a thin smile. “What is dead may never die.” Her next words caught in her throat when she realised that Daenerys actually had risen again, harder and stronger.

Did that mean anything? She decided to leave that for the Damphair to ponder. “Daenerys Targaryen is very much alive, and Sansa Stark would be wise to kill herself before she gets to her.” She could hear a larger branch fall from the weirwood. “As far as you Tallharts are concerned, you're currently supporting a House in rebellion against your rightful queen. Should you bend the knee to her, however, she will likely decide that the death of half your family and loss of your weirwood were punishment enough. If not, she'll burn you to death.” Yara looked at Lady Eddara, whose face had become expressionless. “We'll give you some time to decide.”

With that, she walked back to the keep, where her soldiers were handing out provisions they'd brought on their ships. Taking the North was hungry work. She only wished Gwyn was here to celebrate with her.


	26. Wolkan VI | Jon II

Wolkan VI

“The ironborn have taken Moat Cailin, Flint's Finger, Barrowtown, Torrhen's Square, and Deepwood Motte”, the queen announced. “Most of the Flints, Dustins, Tallharts, and Glovers appear to be dead, although we have no concrete information.”

“How?”, Edwin Snow asked, shock clear on his face. “I know the castles were barely manned, but even so, the ironborn don't have enough men to take all of them at once. Especially this quickly.”

“They do not”, Sansa agreed. “But they do appear to have a very large Essosi sellsword company on their side. Please do not ask me how they paid for it; I really have no idea.”

“What about Bear Island?”, Ser Hallis asked, and the queen waved her hand. “I am not sure if they will even bother with that. According to their last report, there were exactly six fighting men on the island.” She stared at her hands, her face not quite the steely mask she usually wore. The queen appeared to have aged a few years since the weirwood had burned. “We must call the banners, as much as we have any. The improved weather will help them reach Winterfell – but it will also aid the enemy.” The men nodded in agreement. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Winterfell was the ironborn's destination, and now it was a race between them and the Houses in the east of the North. “I must ask, however. Do we stand any chance?”

Wolkan swallowed. “If it was just the ironborn, I'd say yes”, Snow replied. “Winterfell might be badly damaged and contain barely any men, but the Great Keep at least should still be defendable, and the ironborn aren't famous for being good fighters on land. With those sellswords however...” He trailed off. “Even if the banners get here on time, we won't nearly have their numbers.”

“You must leave, Your Grace”, Marsh urged. “Ride for the White Knife and take a ship down to White Harbor, or perhaps Oldcastle, and then travel for the Vale. Your cousin the Lord Arryn would be sure to give you refuge.”

“The knights of the Vale will be at your side once more”, Wolkan added, liking this plan. He would be sure to accompany the queen, as he had absolutely no intention of staying in Winterfell when it inevitably fell once again.

His heart sunk when Sansa shook her head. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Besides, I am not sure why the Vale should support the queen of another realm. I will not abandon my people.”

The men exchanged a look. “You will die if you remain here, Your Grace”, Snow said.

“Perhaps. But I am not ready to give up just yet, and to just leave to let the ironborn take what is ours.” Some of her resolve had returned. “My son is another matter altogether. Maester, you may be sworn to Winterfell as a castle, but I know that you are not a fighter, and that the ironborn have no love for your kind. You will accompany Prince Eddard, his wet nurse, and a small guard to the Eyrie in order to seek refuge with my cousin. Should Winterfell fall and I die, you will raise and counsel my son. The ironborn will not be able to hold the North for long, nor pay their sellswords forever.”

Relief washed over Wolkan. Instead of dying in this frozen-over wasteland, he'd be raising up a young prince at the Eyrie. He bowed his head.

“We must begin immediately”, the queen continued. “We have fought worse odds, and we might stand a chance.” As she began to give orders, Wolkan almost pitied her for her misplaced optimism.

But it was nothing to him. Either way, he was finally out of here.

 

 

Jon II

He'd been on Dragonstone for several days now, in a small room, but not a cell. His hands and feet were bound to a large bed, and he was only untied a few times a day when an Unsullied came in to silently stand watch as he ate or used a chamberpot. This afternoon, they had let him have a bath and given him a new tunic and breeches.

When the door opened a few hours later, he thought he was about to receive his evening meal. Instead, Daenerys appeared, splendidly dressed in red silk and jewellery the likes of which he'd never seen before.

“Aegon”, she said, and he winced at the name. Daenerys smiled and sat on the mattress, next to his torso, crossing her legs. As if they were still lovers. “That _is_ your name, after all. Besides everything else, have you never thought it strange that my brother would give two of his sons the same name? Although he was not even there when you were born, I suppose. But Lyanna Stark must have known the names of his other children.”

He didn't care about who had made that decision, nor why. “My name is Jon”, he said.

Daenerys shrugged. “You can insist all you like, but that will not make it true.”

He looked at her, and then at the ceiling. It was difficult not to look; she was the most vibrant and beautiful sight he'd laid eyes on in a long time.

“Aegon Targaryen”, she mused, running her fingers along his chest. Jon tried to shrink away from her touch, but the mattress would only sink back so much. “Such a noble name, and yet such a pathetic excuse for a man.” Her fingers stopped. “Though I doubt that my brother knew what this son of his would turn into. A kinslayer.” She yanked at the lacing of his tunic, undoing the bow. “A queenslayer.” She tore apart both sides of the lacing, leaving the upper part of his chest exposed. “An oathbreaker.” Her nails dug painfully into his skin, very slowly drawing down to leave deep scratches on his chest. “Have you ever thought of it this way, or have you been priding yourself on your act of heroism ever since? The treason freeing Westeros from the Mad Queen and her foreign hordes.”

As her nails opened his skin, Jon's breath quickened. Out of fear, he told himself.

“I have thought of it no other way”, he said. “What I've done...” How could it even be put into words? “There are many things I regret, but this was the most shameful and damning act of all. If I could go back and undo it, I would.”

Suddenly, she sat on him, straddling his hips, and another slap met his face. The wound from the last one had barely healed and now opened again as her ring cut his cheek one more.

Bent over him, face mere inches from his, her violet eyes glared down on him. “Stand up for yourself just _once_ , you worm. We are the blood of the dragon, the last two descendants of the dragonlords of old Valyria, and _you_ ”, another slap, “are the most spineless creature I have ever met. When was the last time you truly acted? The last time you took what you wanted? You only killed me because Tyrion had told you to, that twisted little thing. Your entire life, you have done nothing but be miserable while you failed upwards, feeling more sorry for yourself with every title and every bit of power that was laid at your feet. You shame Valyria, you shame our House, and you shame me.”

Jon could only stare at her as she sat back, high above him with her hips resting on his. _Gods_ , she was beautiful when she was angry, one of the many terrible parts of him thought. But also: that was not what he'd expected.

“I”, he gulped, “don't know what to say.”

“Of course you don't!” She threw up her hands in frustration. “If I had not seen you in the temple in Valyria, I would still not quite believe we are related.”

“You've been to Valyria?” That was impossible. Then again, many things were, before she did them.

“Yes, but please spare me your wide-eyed wonder; it does not befit the blood we share.” She reached into the neckline of her gown and produced a small, sheathed dagger. As she pulled it free, he saw the ever-recognisable glint of Valyrian steel.

Maybe this was it, then. Finally.

But instead of plunging the dagger into his heart, Daenerys lifted up his tunic and sliced it open, impatiently parting both halves. She ran her hand over the old cuts on his chest, as she had done before, when they were still lovers.

The memory, or perhaps her touch, made his breath hitch. Daenerys caught his eye and he was sure she hadn't missed it. “The blood of the dragon”, she said again. “I assume you thought you had been resurrected to help defeat the army of the dead, or perhaps to kill me.”

“If it was to kill you, the Lord of Light is the cruelest of gods.”

She waved the hand holding the dagger, almost slicing open his jaw. Having realised that, she sheathed it again and carelessly threw it across the room. “That is very obviously not why, considering that I was brought back, too. No, I have come to the understanding that there is no Lord of Light. There are only the gods of Valyria, and they have no wish to see their blood extinct.”

What? “There are plenty of people of Valyrian blood in the world”, he protested, but she held up a hand. “Of course. But the only House of dragonlords that escaped the Doom was ours.”

Could she really believe that? Valyrian gods? “Now that we know why we were both brought back, and we have known for a long time why you were killed, I must ask: why did you kill _me_ , truly?”

Jon was unable to comprehend how she could be so relaxed, considering the situation. “You must know that”, he said. “You burned King's Landing.”

“I did.” She seemed entirely unconcerned. “And then you spoke to Tyrion. But what did he say? I am quite curious as to what finally convinced you to do something that you so adamantly swear you regret. That goes against every notion of honour you have.”

Jon thought back to that cursed day, and to Tyrion in his cell. He had done so often in the time since. “He said that everywhere you went, evil men died”, he recalled. “And that as you grew more powerful, you became more sure that you were good, and that you were right. That you believed your destiny was to build a better world for everyone, and that you'd kill anyone who got in the way of that.”

A light laugh escaped her, and she carefully ran her fingers across the bloody scratches she'd left earlier. “Well, do not worry about that any longer, dear nephew. Death has robbed me of all notions of improving the world or breaking the wheel.” Her eyes met his. “But I do still want what is ours by rights.” Before he could process that she had said _ours_ , she cocked her head. “And that was all it took?”

“No. He also said you'd kill my sisters if they didn't bend the knee.”

Daenerys shrugged. “That is true, although of course the only real sister you ever had was killed on the orders of his father. Now, I can see how that got to you, but”, her fingers travelled down his torso, “what made you regret it?”

He had to clear his throat, the feeling of her touch making it shamefully difficult to focus. “As you said. Kinslayer, queenslayer, oathbreaker.”

“Is that all?” She had reached his bellybutton, drawing circles around it. It affected Jon in ways he didn't want to admit to, but she'd notice soon enough if she went on like this.

“And because I loved you”, he had to say. Daenerys arched a brow. “Did you, now? I got an entirely different impression.”

“I was conflicted.”

She snorted. “Indeed. Now, dear Aegon, I am _very_ angry at you, and I have an excellent plan for your punishment. But I fear I must get the most painful part out of the way now, or the rest will make no sense.” It already didn't, he thought.

Then Daenerys sighed, deeply and full of sorrow, and looked him straight in the eyes. “I was with child.”

Suddenly, Jon couldn't feel anything anymore. There were no words to describe it, and no way to make sense of it that wouldn't cost him the last of his sanity. After a while, he realised that his face had contorted into a mask of anguish, and Daenerys was looking down at him in grim satisfaction.

“Yes, Aegon. You _utter_ disgrace to our family have not only killed your queen, your lover, and your aunt, but also your child.”

He had nothing to say. He only had the intense wish to break from his binds, find that dagger on the other side of the room, and finally meet his end.

“I had not told you because I thought I was cursed to never bear a living child, and I did not want to give you false hope.” A short, bitter laugh. “Of course, I could not know that you would _kill_ me. And then, when I was resurrected, a half-grown babe came out of me in a wave of blood.”

With that, she climbed off the bed, gracefully finding her feet on the floor and picking up the dagger. “I will have your evening meal brought in”, she said as she headed for the door. “I will also be away for a few days, so you will have plenty of time to wallow in your misery.”

“Please kill me”, he replied, and Daenerys turned to him. “I will not. _That_ is your punishment.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewatch Jon and Tyrion's conversation in E6 to write the scene between Jon and Dany. It's ten minutes long. I didn't enjoy it.


	27. Davos VII

“It is truly a shame about Bronn's child”, Tyrion said, once more looking down at King's Landing from a balcony. “Poor Lady Dyonne must be distraught.”

“A sad thing indeed.” Ser Ryon refilled Tyrion's cup. “But she is young, and I am sure she will bear many living children.”

They raised their cups to that. “Maybe he'll even come back to King's Landing, then”, Davos said. “Once this is all done with.”

They were watching the city gates open as the Dornish troops entered. Prince Anders had brought many more men than they had hoped for, and soon, they would fill both the city and the Red Keep. The smallfolk would be forced to quiet down, the red priests would be expelled, and the rebellious nobles would recant their treachery and beg the king for forgiveness.

At least, that was the plan. Despite his best efforts, Davos had not been able to shake off the suspicion that had formed during that small council meeting. If there was some grand Dornish conspiracy and maybe even the Dragon Queen come back to life, then they were now fucked.

“I cannot _wait_ ”, Tyrion exclaimed. “Maybe His Grace will even come out of his catatonic state once he sees that order has been restored.”

Whatever terrible event King Bran had foreseen taking place in the North, it had come to pass. For the last week, he'd done nothing but mumble about trees. It was perhaps the grandest indictment of his reign that this hadn't changed anything, in practical terms.

“I fear, my Lord Hand, that the king's current predicament has its roots in the North”, Ser Ryon said, watching the troops of his homeland advancing through the city as the smallfolk cleared the streets. “At least, this is what his previous worries would imply. Oh, look.” He pointed at the front of the Dornish host. “It is Prince Anders himself. My good-father has never passed off a chance to take the credit.” He looked at Tyrion. “You would do well to thank him graciously for pacifying the city, my lord. He does like a fair bit of praise.”

“He can have all the praise he wants”, Tyrion replied with a large swig of wine. “Look at that. All they needed was a show of strength, and the good people of King's Landing are going back to their houses with no struggle at all.”

It was true. They could clearly see how, in the face of the overwhelming amount of soldiers, the red priests stopped preaching, their crowds disintegrated, and no-one put up the slightest amount of resistance. That, more than anything, made Davos uneasy.

“It's almost strange, isn't it?”, he asked, glancing at Ser Ryon. “I thought they hated the Crown. The Dornish forces are here at the Crown's behalf, and yet, no-one's saying anything. Wildly out of character for the people of King's Landing, if you ask me.”

Ser Ryon shrugged. “I suppose they enjoy rebellious words well enough, but are not willing to die for them.”

While Tyrion concurred, Davos slowly shook his head to himself. He still wasn't sure if he was right, or if he was going mad.

“Even more so than the commoners, I believe we can count on the nobles to stop their sword-rattling”, Tyrion said. “Their household guards are nothing against this, and I for one am so looking forward to walking the Red Keep without Ser Brienne once more.” He had another sip of wine. “A great woman, no doubt, but terrible at conversation.”

Davos dearly hoped that he was right. He stood in silence as the army marched towards the Red Keep, leaving the quips and observations to the Hand and the master of whisperers. There were so many men-at-arms that the majority stayed outside the gates.

A Dornish army, a Dornish spymaster who kept assuring them all would be well, King Bran seeing visions of a dragon over a desert, King Bran sinking into an almost vegetative state after some unspecified terrible event took place... It didn't make sense, not truly, but something _had_ to be afoot. He thought of the other parts of the realm, and came up short when he tried to remember the last thing he'd heard from the Iron Islands. Something about ships, most likely?

Oh, yes. They had been receiving wood to rebuild their fleet, more than a year ago. From Dorne.

Now that the troops were close to the Red Keep, he could see Prince Anders on his horse. The man had said virtually nothing at the Great Council, and had vanished soon after.

Almost as soon as Yara Greyjoy.

Most likely, these two things were in no way related. Even if they had talked that day, they must have discussed the timber shipments; nothing but trade between two parts of the realm.

 _She freed us from a tyrant_ , Lady Yara had said, about Daenerys.

Davos was pulled out of his increasingly paranoid thoughts (paranoia, it _had_ to be) when he heard the gates to the Red Keep open. Ser Ryon merrily waved down, and Prince Anders waved back, leading a part of the Dornish troops into the castle. “I have to admit, I am glad my good-father came”, he said. “It has been so long since I have had news from my lady wife and my sons.”

“They must join you in King's Landing, now that it will be safe again”, Tyrion offered, but Ser Ryon shook his head. “Ynys must learn to rule in Dorne, as do our sons, once they are old enough to learn anything. We all have to make our sacrifices to serve the realm.”

Nothing about Ser Ryon was in any way suspicious, Davos thought. Except for that one half-smile that he'd thought he'd seen once; that he easily could have imagined.

For the next few minutes, the three men stood silent, intently listening for any sounds of struggle. The Rep Keep was filled with the noise of armed men marching through its halls, but they heard no shouts, no steel meeting steel.

“Well, good sers”, Tyrion said with a satisfied smile. “It appears the rebellious nobles are in no mood to fight. I am quite looking forward to seeing Lord Vance beg for forgiveness.” He had a large swig of wine.

Davos looked out over the city once more. Dornishmen were lining the streets, the smallfolk remained in their still-ruined houses, and the red priests were nowhere to be seen. Next, for less than a heartbeat, he thought he could see a large shadow in the clouds.

Before he could ponder that thought, they heard a door open behind them. Tyrion turned with a smile as they saw a Dornish soldier approach – then, his cup dropped to the floor, spilling his wine.

Davos looked back and forth between the soldier and the Hand, who was staring at the man with a look of shock and fearful recognition. “Daario”, he whispered.

The man leaned against the entrance to the balcony, a cocky grin on his face. “Tyrion. I could not _wait_ to see you, old friend.”

He didn't sound Dornish. Tyroshi, rather. In this moment, Davos knew that he'd been right after all; that something was awfully, terribly wrong. He made to turn to Ser Ryon, and the next thing he knew, he found himself pressed against the bannister and forced to overlook the city, a dagger at his throat.

Behind him, he could hear steel being drawn, Tyrion hoisted up on the same railing by the Tyroshi.

A terrible roar came from the sky; one he'd heard many times before. As Drogon emerged from above the clouds, soaring over King's Landing with the Dragon Queen's silver head just about visible on his back, Davos closed his eyes. Gods, he should have said something.

“What a glorious sight”, Ser Ryon said, mouth just at Davos' ear. “The return of our rightful queen. You should watch, ser, for it is the last thing you will ever see.” At another sound he hadn't expected, Davos pried his eyes open. People were streaming out into the streets once more, the Dornish troops making no attempt to stop them. Cheers erupted in the city while Daenerys flew towards the Red Keep, just as she'd done that time she'd burned them all. How could they cheer for her, now?

“You seem like a good man, Ser Davos, if one who seeks bad company”, Ser Ryon told him. The Tyroshi was speaking to Tyrion, eliciting choked sounds, but Davos couldn't hear him over the ringing in his ears. “For that, I will do you a mercy. Your end shall be far more swift than that of your Imp friend.” From within the castle, he could now make out screams, and Ser Brienne's unmistakable battlecry just in the hallway behind them. “Her Grace wants you to know that the traitor Jon Snow is imprisoned on Dragonstone”, Ser Ryon added.

Drogon flew by just a few feet from them, Daenerys Targaryen on his back. The cheers from the streets and the sounds of battle within the castle were deafening, her look of triumph and the gleam of her crown the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. Drogon breathed fire into the air, so hot he could feel it where he stood.

When Daenerys landed on the Red Keep, Ser Ryon opened Davos' throat. As his blood streamed down from the balcony, he heard nothing but Tyrion's helpless whimper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is basically the end of Part 2, in my view, though it doesn't really make a difference considering that there won't be a big time jump this time.


	28. Yara IX | Jon III

Yara IX

They'd arrived at Winterfell at the same time as the Northern bannermen.

The weather had been harsh, and the Ghiscari troops had suffered on their march, but it hadn't been as bad as it could have. Once they'd cut off the much smaller host of the Northern Houses and prevented them from seeking refuge inside the castle, it had been an easy fight.

Winterfell itself was still badly damaged from the previous wars, something she had counted on – with most of its outer parts still destroyed and barely any fighters left, the imbalance was almost laughable. They'd scaled the walls of the Great Keep with relative ease and had stormed the innermost part of the castle, wiping out the little opposition they'd encountered.

Now, she was looking for another who called herself queen. Sansa Stark hadn't been in the Great Hall, nor in her private chambers, and the godswood too had shown no trace of her. They'd found no babe, either; only an empty crib and some discarded infant-size clothes. Searching her brain for anything Theon had told her of the place, the obvious answer struck Yara. With a curse, she made to find the crypts.

She went down the stairs by herself, making no sound, axe in one hand and dagger in the other. On silent feet, Yara passed by the tombs of the old Kings of Winter, paying no mind to their judging stares. Finally, in the glimmering light of a single torch, she saw her.

The Queen in the North stood before the statue of a man Yara could only assume was the late Lord Eddard. There was still no sign of a babe, only Sansa, speaking silently to the statue with the point of a dagger pressed to her heart.

Yara briefly considered waiting, seeing if the girl would have the stomach to kill herself. It would certainly be better than whatever it was Daenerys had in store for her, although she couldn't even know that yet. Then again, she didn't want to deny the Dragon Queen the pleasure.

Still unnoticed, she drew one of her throwing knives. It was a risk – if she missed, she might just end up killing Sansa anyway. Still, it had a higher chance of succeeding than arguing with her.

Yara took aim, threw, and just then, Sansa moved the tiniest amount. The knife flew past her and into the darkness, landing somewhere deep in the crypt.

The girl whirled around, pointing her dagger at Yara, which was at least an improvement. She stepped forward into the light.

“Yara Greyjoy. I did not think we would meet again under such circumstances.” She was acting all composed, now.

“Sansa Stark”, Yara replied. “I just wanted us to get more closely acquainted. I've heard a lot about you, and I'm sure it goes both ways.”

The girl cocked her head behind her. “That was how you wanted to kill me? A throwing knife? If you have heard so much, you must be aware that I am not known for my skill as a fighter.”

Yara gave her a smile. “If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. I was trying to keep you from killing yourself.”

“What for?”, Sansa asked. “Do you expect me to bend the knee to you?”

“Hardly. I'll tell you why I'm here later.” Yara pointed behind her. “You might as well come outside. If you end your life here and how, you'll never find out why any of this happened.”

That was the best argument she could think of. Beyond that, Sansa really had no reason to keep on living.

“I have no desire to see Winterfell in ruins once more”, she said, and pointed the dagger back at her chest. Yara shrugged. “It's not any more ruined than it was before we got here. Wasn't much of a fight.”

“It was a fight without honour”, the girl alleged, briefly looking to the statue at her side. “Attacking us with no provocation, certainly not with the blessing of your king, using eastern sellswords.”

She took a step closer. “I don't care about your greenlander honour, they aren't sellswords, and I don't have a king. I am queen, and more rightfully so than you.”

Sansa snorted, briefly relaxing her grip on the dagger. “Another Greyjoy rebellion?”

“That's funny”, Yara replied. “Your husband said the same.”

“Where is Rickard? Is he alive?” She lowered her dagger, but brought it back up when Yara took another step.

“He lives, and he's on Pyke. Where's your son?”

“As if I would tell you. What did you do to my husband to make him tell you of our son?”

 _Ask_ , Yara thought. “He didn't”, she lied. “Flint did. We barely had to do anything for him to sing us a sweet northern song of princes, queens, and dwindling food stores. It was embarrassing how easily he gave it all up, really. It almost made us feel bad for your lot, so we took his tongue to make him stop.” Another step closer, almost unnoticeable, Sansa being too distracted by her story.

“Is he dead?” What should she say? “Almost”, she decided. “The wound got infected, back in his throat, and now his mouth is full of rot and puss. Nasty.” Another step.

“What will you do with me?” Sansa looked at her, then suddenly seemed to realise how close she'd got, but didn't step back.

“I told you”, Yara said. “You'll have to put down that knife and come outside, or you'll never find out. I won't have your tongue, though.” She couldn't make any promises for Daenerys.

“When you took this castle”, Sansa said, “and when you killed my men, and the other northerners before them, did you not once think of your brother?”

“Of course I did.” It had been hard to ignore.“Theon died for you and your family, aye, and for the rest of the living. He did it to save all our skins, and because he thought he had a debt to pay to your House. He loved you, I don't know in what way, but I know he did.” That clearly got to her, and Sansa's hand began to shake around the dagger.

“He paid his debt”, Yara said, creeping another tiny bit closer. This should be enough. “They told me how he died, later. It was too far from the sea, but I'm sure he was glad to give his life for your brother, who must have _known_ this would happen. Who sacrificed him without a second thought.”

When Sansa wanted to protest, Yara lunged forward. She grabbed the hand holding the dagger and threw them both onto the ground, Sansa landing on the cold stone with a scream, Yara on top of her, wrestling the dagger from her hand and holding the other arm down with her knee. “I am _not_ Theon”, she said. “I don't owe you anything. But there's another who's owed justice.” She flipped Sansa around, pushing her face into the dirt as she bound her hands behind her back.

Yara couldn't wait to tell her the whole story.

 

Jon III

Usually, the Unsullied who came into his room were men Jon thought he hadn't met before. Today, it was Grey Worm.

He untied him, then handed Jon a bowl of the spiced stew the eunuchs ate so often. “News”, he announced.

Jon didn't reply, instead beginning to mechanically eat the stew with a piece of flat bread. “You should've killed me back in King's Landing”, he finally said.

“I wanted to”, Grey Worm responded. “But you want to die. That is why you will not. The queen still has use for you.”

In a way, Jon was glad. Not because he wanted to live, but precisely because he didn't. He didn't deserve death.

“What is this news?”, he asked. He actually had no idea of what had happened south of the Wall ever since he left.

“The queen has allied with Dorne, the Iron Islands, and the Stormlands.” Jon blinked. Gendry, really? “She has brought more troops from the Bay of Dragons. The ironborn have taken the North, and Sansa Stark is their prisoner. She has a husband and a son now. They will do as the queen commands.”

Gods. He hadn't even known that Sansa had married, much less that she'd had a child. Now, it would undoubtedly be taken from her, and she'd suffer some terrible fate for having told Tyrion of his birth.

“The Dornish have taken King's Landing”, Grey Worm continued, and Jon almost choked on his stew. Could that be possible? Daenerys was conquering Westeros more quickly than even Aegon had. The first Aegon, that was. “How?”, he just asked.

“The Usurper was weak and the people were starving. The red priests convinced them that the Mother of Dragons is their saviour.”

He almost wanted to believe that these were all lies; that Daenerys had merely sent Grey Worm in to hurt him. Then again – she knew she'd hurt him more if it was true.

“Davos Seaworth is dead”, Grey Worm added. Jon almost couldn't react to that anymore. “Tyrion, Brandon Stark, and Samwell Tarly are captured. They will die, too, but more slowly.” He had no doubt about that, if it was all true. Jon just couldn't imagine the people of King's Landing not opposing her, really thinking she was their saviour, after she'd destroyed half the city. Perhaps she had just killed them all.

“The queen wants you to see”, Grey Worm finally said. “She is on her way back now, on Drogon. We travel to King's Landing tonight.”

 


	29. Daenerys IV

Daenerys considered the corpses before her.

Not many had fallen when they took the Red Keep. Only about twenty gold cloaks had died before the rest had laid down their arms in the face of the overwhelming Dornish force. Fifteen Dornish soldiers had passed, ten of whom had been killed by the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard; Ser Brienne. Now she, too, was dead, killed by a spear to the back of her neck. The boy Podrick had died as well, along with a young Blackwood knight, as well as Lord Royce and a few of his household guard. And Ser Davos, of course, as per her express orders.

Her nephew was staring at his body with the same agonised expression he'd worn since she'd found him beyond the Wall, and she wondered if he'd ever shed it. Not that it mattered too much. She had feared that he'd kill himself, but ultimately, it seemed like he had accepted his punishment of being alive.

“You made Ser Davos' death quick, Ser Ryon?”, she asked. They were in the throne room, not far from where Aegon had killed her. Grey Worm and Daario were with them, along with Prince Anders and his good-son.

“Yes, Your Grace, as you had commanded.”

“Very good.” He had needed to die, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to hate the old smuggler. “Have his body taken to his lands for burial. Do the same for Ser Edmund and Lord Royce. As for Ser Brienne and Podrick, I want their heads cut off and kept in ice, then brought north before they can rot.” She glanced at Aegon. “Your cousin was quite fond of them, was she not?”

“You don't need to punish Sansa”, he said. “The gods already have.”

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “The gods?”

“She swore an oath before a heart tree. Then she broke it.”

The queen exchanged a look with the others. Northerners were a strange kind.

“Your gods may find themselves much less powerful than they used to be”, Daenerys said. “I have had the ironborn burn every weirwood they could find.” His expression seemed to adopt an additional layer of pain, and she mockingly clasped his shoulder. “Remember: this is all your fault. Now, how about you go and help Grey Worm with the heads?”

With nothing but an obedient nod, he followed the Unsullied and the Dornish guards as they carried out the bodies. “Family”, Daenerys sighed at the remaining men. “You have to keep them in line somehow.”

Daario smirked, and she had no doubt that he enjoyed Aegon's punishment for a wide variety of reasons. “It is true, then?”, Prince Anders asked. “He is Rhaegar's son?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She no longer feared anyone supporting his claim over hers, especially in light of what she'd planned for him. “My father was mad and unstable, my brother Viserys weak and pathetic. And yet, I fear that my nephew might be the worst that has come out of our line.” She shrugged. “But beggars can't be choosers. I will still have to marry him.”

Daario's smirk vanished, but the other two didn't seem surprised. “I would suggest you take it upon yourself to raise your children, Your Grace”, Ser Ryon said. “Your influence should lead to a better outcome than his.”

The Dornish were truly excellent at flattery, she thought as a few Unsullied carried in a small wooden cage. Daenerys' face lit up. “Well, speaking of children. Have any of you ever seen a newly-hatched dragon?”

Next to riding Drogon, Missandor was giving her more joy than anything else. After the expected professions of admiration – likely genuine – she had the small dragon on her shoulders and examined the room. “The lords and ladies will gather here this afternoon”, Daenerys decided. “I realise I am in need of a new throne, but until one is procured, I will make do with whichever suitably ornate seat can be found.” She turned towards Daario. “Did I tell you I never even got to sit on the Iron Throne?”

“He couldn't even let you have that?”, he asked. “Forgive me, my queen, but marrying him seems like the opposite of a punishment.”

“For anyone else, it would be a great reward”, she replied, petting Missandor's head. “Can you imagine, Prince Anders? How the lords of this realm would scramble for my hand?”

“I would have offered myself, Your Grace, if I did not have two grown daughters like to kill me for producing more heirs.”

Daenerys nodded to herself, walking up the steps to where the Iron Throne had stood. She truly had no idea why Drogon had burned it. “The blood of the dragon must remain pure”, she announced, surveying the room and finding the décor lacking. “Or as pure as it still is, in any case. Aegon is the only man for whom I can bear children, I know that now.” None of them asked how. “I also know I shall bear a fair few. How old are your sons, Ser Ryon?”

She was sure the Dornish expected a new Targaryen marriage in return for their loyalty. “Daron has four years and Ormond two, Your Grace.”

“Wonderful. My oldest son and daughter must wed each other, of course, but I will have another daughter to marry to one of your sons.” Again, no-one asked how she could be so certain. Daenerys quite enjoyed not being questioned.

 

A few hours later, it was time to address the remaining nobles. Thanks to Tyrion's continuing incompetence, there weren't as many in King's Landing as she would've liked – but at least, those who were there shared her disdain for the Usurper.

“My lords and ladies”, Daenerys said from atop a seat they'd selected as an interim throne. Prince Anders was standing behind her to the right, Aegon to the left. They'd been able to hang up a few Targaryen banners and she was wearing one of her Valyrian crowns, but she didn't think either of those were nearly as effective as Missandor in her lap, or Drogon peering in through the remaining gaps in the walls. “For the second time, I have taken back King's Landing from those who had usurped it from my House. This time, I shall not fall victim to treachery.”

A few glances shifted nervously in between her and Aegon. She could address that later. “Bran the Broken and his incompetent small council are either dead or imprisoned”, she continued. “Soon, the Usurper himself, Lord Tyrion, and Grand Maester Tarly shall be executed for treason. They did not only commit this crime by usurping my rightful throne, but also through actions undertaken before I first conquered King's Landing.”

It really worked to her advantage that Cersei had been so feared – there had been almost no-one at her court, so next to none of the nobles before her had been there when she'd burned she city. “For his support of the Usurper's reign, the unjustly appointed Lord Bronn of Highgarden is hereby stripped of his titles, and sentenced to die in his absence. Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, the self-professed Queen in the North, has been captured by our ironborn allies and will be dealt with in due time.” A few eyes widened, and more looked towards Aegon. As far as Daenerys could tell, he was motionless behind her. “The Lords Arryn and Tully have been invited to pledge their Houses to mine once more. Should they honour their obligation, their past support to any of the many usurpers will be forgiven. The same offer extends to anyone in this room. Anyone who refuses to kneel will die.”

A few very quiet whispers went through the crowd, although none seemed surprised. “While you ponder your fates, there are those who have already decided. Prince Anders and Ser Ryon.”

The two moved to kneel before her throne, swords at her feet once more. “Dorne has once again proved its loyalty to House Targaryen.” She'd considered making Anders her Hand, but the small council would have to wait until all was done. “Tell me, my lords, does either of your Houses own a Valyrian steel sword?”

They both said no, and she saw a glimmer in the prince's eyes. She'd thought he'd like this.

After a nod at Grey Worm, he brought forth two of the weapons she'd taken from Valyria. One was a magnificent greatsword as long as Daenerys was tall, the hilt of which she'd had engraved with the Yronwood's new sigil of spears crossed in front of a gate. The other was a longsword, still suitably impressive, with House Allyrion's golden hand on its pommel.

“Rise, my lords,” Daenerys said as she stood herself, sending Missandor to flutter onto an armrest, and handed each their new weapons. It helped that Valyrian steel was so light. “They are still unnamed, and I suggest you choose wisely. From this day forward, these swords shall belong to your Houses, until the end of all days.”

“We thank you for your kindness and generosity, Your Grace”, the prince replied. She was quite sure that the small applause that followed had been started by a Dornish soldier.

Next, she called up Lord Gendry. Someone had clearly taught him the proper words (Prince Anders, she suspected), and he pledged her the fealty of House Baratheon and the Stormlands without incident. Another tepid round of applause, and then it was time for the part she truly expected to get a reaction.

“My lords and ladies”, she said once again. “All of you will know the man behind me as Jon Snow, Lord Eddard Stark's bastard son, former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and former self-proclaimed King in the North. Many of you will have heard rumours that he is in fact Aegon Targaryen, the legitimate son of my brother Rhaegar and the Lady Lyanna Stark.” A pause for dramatic effect as she was about to finally tell them what they'd all been wondering about. “These rumours are true”, she said. Now, a real murmur went through the crowd. “Further, you may have heard that he killed me. That, too, is true.” While the nobles processed this, furiously whispering to each other, she turned to him with a sweet smile. “Come, dear nephew.”

He did, kneeling before her, Longclaw at her feet. “Prince Aegon”, she said. “Would you care to recount your crimes?”

His head was bowed, but he spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “Before I knew of my true birth, I called myself the King in the North even after you'd returned to Westeros, Your Grace, thereby failing to honour the oath Torrhen Stark had made to Aegon to Conqueror. After I had seen the error of my ways, bent the knee, and learned of my birth, I broke a promise I had made to you, who I by then called my queen.” A pause. Daenerys could feel the lords' and ladies' anticipation for the juicy part, and couldn't blame them. “Later, I was persuaded by the traitor Tyrion Lannister to commit the greatest crime of all. Here in this very room, I killed my queen, who I knew to be my own kin. Who was also my lover”, his voice broke, “and the mother of my unborn child.”

A collective gasp went through the throne room, quite satisfyingly. Daenerys soaked it in for a moment, enjoying the overall confirmation that she was righteous in her wrath.

“I was sentenced to take the black, and immediately deserted.” Not that anyone cared about that, but she had him say it for the sake of completeness. “I do not ask for forgiveness”, Aegon continued his memorised script. He didn't know how it would end yet. “I know I don't deserve it. I do not ask that you spare any of the others that have wronged you.” Saying _that_ must've hurt. “I only ask that you punish me as you see fit, Your Grace, and I renounce any claim my true birth has given me.”

She let the nobles take everything in; letting the rapidly changing line of succession settle in their minds. “The rightful punishment for any of these crimes is death”, she then announced. “However, kinslaying is not a sin _I_ am willing to commit.” She'd never get enough of rubbing it in. “Our family tree is small and stunted, dear nephew. For your crimes, I sentence you to live with your guilt until the natural end of your days, forever reminded of them as my husband and king consort.”

She almost couldn't hear the nobles' reaction over the beautiful sight of him looking up at her, wearing an expression of pure shock. Staring into his eyes, Daenerys continued. “You will stand beside me as I punish your traitorous friends and family, as I reign and raise our children. You will wear the colours of our House, and perhaps you will one day redeem yourself and become a true Targaryen.”

After that, and most likely under the consideration of both the Dornish troops and Drogon just outside the Red Keep, the nobles present were quick to bend the knee. Lord Vance was the first; the Riverlands lord who'd spoken out against the Usurper. Most lords of the Crownlands were there, which meant that her immediate surroundings were secured.

Daenerys would still have to see how Lord Tully and Lord Arryn would react. She'd still have to deal with this Bronn character, and find out if she'd meet any resistance in the Westerlands. Sansa Stark's punishment was something to look forward to, but would have to wait until they found her son. But for now, she had the satisfaction of the look of horror on Aegon's face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany... does need to marry Jon/Aegon. After all, she wants _Targaryen_ kids – obviously she, as queen, could legitimise her bastards, but that still carries less prestige than just being trueborn from the start. Also, marrying the queen will obviously make him king consort, but I honestly think it's quite funny to have him formally hold an important role in her reign, considering she'll do many things he won't like. In reality, he won't have any power, of course.


	30. Rickard IV | Anders VI

Rickard IV

“Get in there, you greenlander piece of shit!”, the soldier shouted, flinging Rickard into the cell with a punch to the jaw. He thought the man might be enjoying their mummer's farce a bit too much.

The door slammed shut. As the soldier stomped out of the dungeon, Rickard picked himself up from the dirty floor, and through the bars, he saw a slim, red-haired figure shift two cells from his.

This would be his ultimate test before the Dragon Queen, he knew. In another cell, hidden from sight but still within earshot, was the Princess Gwyneth. She'd be attentively listening to every word that would be said, as she'd told him on their way to Winterfell.

“Rickard?”, the figure in the other cell whispered, and he grabbed onto the bars, feigning surprise. “Sansa! Thank the gods you're still alive.”

“Not for much longer, I expect.” She stood up, too, the empty cell between them small enough to see her clearly. His wife looked dirtied, tired, and perhaps somehow older, but uninjured. “Do you know why they are here?”, she asked. “Greyjoy told me I would find out, but since then I have just been in the dungeon, and no-one said a word to me.”

“They have not told me either”, he lied. “They...” Where to start? “They said they would torture me, but then Flint started babbling out everything when they had not even touched him. Then they said he shamed his House and took his tongue.”

“I know”, she replied. “They sent it to Flint's Finger in a box, along with his sword. Does he still live?”

“He died of the infection.” Perhaps Flint's actual death had still been more merciful than his supposed one. “The wound festered until he could no longer eat, drink, or sleep. He was in the cell next to mine, and the _smell_...” He shook his head, amazed at how he was filling in the grizzly details. “He could not speak, but his eyes begged me to kill him for days. But I could not get to him, they had chained me...” He sunk to the ground while holding the bars. Too much?

Sansa didn't seem to think so. “They truly are savages”, she said. “Have they told you? They have slaughtered half the Houses of the North. Greyjoy told me she had killed Beren Tallhart herself, and that Denys Dustin fell when they took Barrowtown. They are burning the weirwoods, mayhaps because they think their Drowned God can reach inland without them, but I do not know.”

“They are doing it to blind your brother”, he said. “I heard some guards talking about it when I was imprisoned on Pyke.”

“Of _course_ ”, she cried out. “I should have seen that. I have just not been able to think since...” She shook her head.

“Since what they did to Eddard?”, he asked, quietly, trying to sound very serious. “I am so sorry, I swear I will make them pay and if it's the last thing I do -”

“They did what?”, she asked, and he could see her clasping the bars, staring at him intently. “What did they do?”

“What do you mean?” He matched her look. “Greyjoy told me that they”, he swallowed, “they _slaughtered_ him when they took Winterfell; bashed his head in with a mace right before your eyes.”

Sansa blinked rapidly, obviously trying to make sense of it. “They did not”, she said. “They lied to you, and -” She laughed, very briefly. “They have _no idea_ , do they?” She walked her cell, carefully looked in every direction around them, held up a finger to bid him to make no sound as she listened. Once she was satisfied they were alone, Sansa stepped back to the bars closest to him. She whispered, but still had to be loud enough for him to hear, and he was sure that Princess Gwyneth heard as well. “I sent him away”, she said. “On a boat down the White Knife, and then onwards to the Vale, with Maester Wolkan and the wet nurse. I hope my cousin Robin Arryn will take him in.”

Now, that made a lot of sense. “Oh, thank the gods”, he said. “Did you send guards with him? Even if no-one knows who he is, the danger -”

“Of course I did”, she interrupted, and gave him a smile. “Our son is as safe as he could be under the circumstances. I could only count on Lord Manderly giving them a good ship with more men to cross the Bite, but if the gods are good, they should be in Vale by now, if not at the Eyrie already.”

That was all they needed to know, although Rickard was not looking forward to what would come next. Betraying his wife was the best thing to do, of course; he had no intention of dying like Flint, and being regent instead – it had been an easy choice. But having to face her when she found out was another matter altogether.

“Are you certain your cousin will take him?”, he asked, trying to draw out the inevitable, as they heard a shuffle. Sansa straightened herself and looked around wildly, suddenly aware that they had not been alone at all. Rickard closed his eyes for a moment, not quite ready for what would come.

He heard steps, and when he opened his eyes again, the princess was standing before both their cells. “Who are you?”, Sansa asked. It was obvious she was not a prisoner; clean and healthy and confident as she was. “Gwyneth Yronwood, of Dorne”, came the reply. “I would say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Stark, but I am not a good liar.” She unlocked Rickard's cell door and he stood, very aware of how Sansa was looking at him, terrible realisation dawning on her face. “Unlike your husband”, the princess continued as he self-consciously left the cell, looking anywhere but at her.

“You...”, Sansa began, then he heard the sound of her sacking to the floor. “Yes, he has betrayed you”, Gwyneth said. Rickard quickly glanced at his wife, who was on her hands and knees on the ground. “Why”, she asked, staring up at him, eyes and voice full of hurt and betrayal. “What did they offer you that you would sell your queen, your son -”

“Eddard will be safe”, he said. “He will be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North when he comes of age. Until then”, he had to admit, “I will be regent.”

“Why?!”, she repeated, hoisting herself up by her cell bars, suddenly a mere foot away from them. “Why do the ironborn _care_? And why”, she gesticulated at Gwyneth, “ _Dorne_? Neither of you can possibly think that you can hold the North -”

She was interrupted as the door to the dungeons opened and Queen Yara strode in with her usual swagger. Rickard found it quite unnerving. “It did sound like you were done”, she said. “Where's the whelp?”

“In the Eyrie, or nearby”, Gwyneth replied. “The _Queen in the North_ ”, she pointed at Sansa with a disparaging smirk, “would like to know why Dorne and the Iron Islands are so invested in her realm.”

“A fair question”, Yara said. As she reached them, she wrapped an arm around the princess' waist and drew her close. Their relationship, too, Rickard found continuously disturbing. Sansa's face left no doubt that she agreed, and he almost found it funny that they still had that in common. They were both of the North, after all, where women weren't as loose in their morals. “You see, Stark, neither Dorne nor the Iron Islands care the slightest bit for your vast, frozen lands. But we do care about justice, and vengeance, and the true queen who should by all rights be ruling over you.”

They always did this, he thought. Draw it out instead of just telling people. Rickard was sure that they did it out of pure sadistic enjoyment.

“Will you tell me who you are talking about?”, Sansa asked. “Or shall I wildly guess at you?”

Princess Gwyneth rolled her eyes at Queen Yara, said to him: “I thought you told me your wife was smart, Ryswell. I have yet to see any evidence of that.”

Greyjoy sighed dramatically, seemingly tired of their game. “It's Daenerys Targaryen. She came back from the dead, just like a certain traitorous _cousin_ of yours once did.”

Sansa's mouth dropped open in the purest expression of shock he'd ever seen on her. “She has taken King's Landing with the help of my father and my good-brother”, Gwyneth continued. “Your brother and your former husband the Imp will burn, Lady Stark, and so will you. I do not know in which order, but you will all die quite terrible deaths. I have also heard of a _present_ being sent north for you, and whatever it is, I am sure it will be awful to behold.”

“She's found your cousin beyond the Wall as well”, Greyjoy added. “Everyone's calling him Prince Aegon now. They're getting married.”

With that swift succession of news, it was difficult to make out which had shocked Sansa the most. “She has your lord husband to thank for that”, Gwyneth said, and Rickard really wished she hadn't, because Sansa's accusing eyes returned to him. “It was he who told us that Prince Aegon had deserted the Night's Watch.”

“And that you had a son in the first place.” Yara patted him on the shoulder, while Sansa's gaze turned to hatred. “Truly, we couldn't have done it nearly as well without him. I should mention that Flint never said a word, and that the Dragon Queen burned him for refusing to bend the knee. She also hatched a dragon in the process.”

“Come, Lord Rickard.” The princess hooked her arm under his, while Sansa stood there, knuckles white from gripping onto the bars of her cell, obviously unable to take in everything she had just been told. “We will need to tell our queen of your son's whereabouts, and prepare her arrival in Winterfell. I heard that last time, her welcome was rather icy.” With a last glance at Sansa, the two women led Rickard out of the dungeon.

His conscience and every shred of his honour told him that he was the lowest kind of traitor and accursed before the gods. The rest of him, however, was just glad that he wasn't the one being left in the cell.

 

 

Anders VI

He met Lord Baelor at Tumbleton, not far from King's Landing. The heir to the Hightower came in his ancient father's stead, which suited Anders well enough. Treating with old men could be a chore.

“I will not mince words, my lord”, he said as they'd settled into the small hall that Lord Footly of Tumbleton had so graciously provided for their meeting. “As it stands right now, Queen Daenerys controls the Crownlands, the Stormlands, Dorne, and the North, and is allied with the Iron Islands. We have the iron fleet, a combined force of near forty-five thousand men throughout the kingdoms, and a dragon. I presume you can imagine what I am about to tell you.”

“The usual proposition”, Baelor said. Prince Anders had always had respect for the man. He had once courted the Princess Elia, he remembered. “Bend the knee or die, I know. But you must be aware that my dear young sister Dyonne is wed to Lord Bronn. He _is_ the Lord Paramount, after all. Why speak to me?”

“ _Bronn_ ”, he said, “has been stripped of his titles and sentenced to death in his absence by Her Grace, for the crimes of aiding the Usurper, and for embezzling the funds of the Crown and of the people of King's Landing.”

Lord Baelor raised his eyebrows. “Embezzling, my lord? I would not have thought that our good master of coin had the necessary subtlety and intelligence to abuse his position this way.”

“He does not”, Anders replied. “It was quite blatant. In any case, he is likely to soon die in a blaze of dragonfire, and then the Reach will need a new Lord Paramount. In the absence of any obvious Tyrell bastards, Her Grace is considering Ser Armond Caswell; he has already sworn his fealty.” The prince leaned back on his chair. “How did it feel, my lord? Marrying your youngest sister to a common sellsword?”

Hightower looked pained. “Worse than you can imagine. Truth be told, we had hoped to persuade Lynesse to return from Lys to wed him, but alas, she preferred the life of a concubine to that of the Lady of Highgarden. Perhaps she had the right instinct, there. Is Queen Daenerys offering to wed my dear Dyonne to Ser Caswell?”

“Naturally.” Anders spread his hands. “She can stay in Highgarden, which is truly a beautiful place, and your nieces and nephews will still rule the Reach. Ser Armond is a dashing young knight from an ancient noble House. All we require is your and your lord father's fealty, and your best attempts at bringing the rest of the Reach to the side of our rightful queen. It is either that, or -”

“Or we will find that even the Hightower cannot withstand dragonflame”, Baelor said. “I can imagine, good prince. If this was my decision alone, the matter would already be settled. However, I do have to consult my lord father.”

Anders could've guessed that the old man would be causing trouble. “Feel free to do so, my lord of Hightower. Do you expect his lordship to hold any reservations?”

Lord Baelor sighed in mock regret. “He is a pious man. All this talk of red priests is making him quite nervous regarding the Dragon Queen's own beliefs.”

“Her Grace follows the Seven, just like every other Targaryen who ruled this land before her.” Anders was sure that Daenerys believed in no gods but herself, but he wasn't about to just admit that. “She also supports the Seven Kingdoms' long tradition of religious liberty. If the people of King's Landing wish to follow the red god, they are free to do so, just as the northerners have remained free to pray before their trees.” Or what was left of them, at any rate.

“I am glad to hear that”, Baelor said. “You must understand that the mood in Oldtown is quite anxious.”

“Why, of course.” Anders could just imagine the old men wringing their wrinkled hands – first a Northern king, and now an invasion of red priests. “In truth, my lord, they should be relieved. After the execution of the traitorous false Grand Maester Tarly, the Citadel will be invited to elect one of their own. Her Grace would prefer one who has completed his training.”

Baelor's mouth twitched. “As would we all. I cannot fully describe to you how the archmaesters reacted to his appointment, my lord.”

“Further, Her Grace will call for the reassembly of the Most Devout in order for them to elect a new High Septon. She will also see to it that a new Great Sept is erected in King's Landing.”

At the very least, Anders hoped that the queen would be open to the idea. “Those will be most welcome news at the Starry Sept, and in my lord father's ear”, Lord Baelor replied.

After this, the deal was essentially done. Anders stopped short of promising that Daenerys would be crowned at the Starry Sept as the Targaryens of old once had been, not quite sure how she would react to him making such assurances. Still, after the Usurper's pitiful performance in that area, he didn't think it would be difficult to win over the Faith of the Seven.

With House Hightower's and House Caswell's influence secured, the Reach was essentially in their hands. They would only need to find and kill Bronn, which should not be too much of an issue.

This left them without the Westerlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale. How much longer these three would hold out before bending to the pressure would have to become apparent soon.

 


	31. Jon IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance.

As much as it hurt to admit it to himself: Jon enjoyed riding Drogon.

He tried not to, of course. But sitting on the dragon's back behind Daenerys, soaring through the skies, seeing trees and houses and people become as small as toys beneath them – it felt good. He couldn't remember the last time _anything_ had felt good, and was exceedingly uncomfortable with the sensation.

As if she'd been able to hear his thoughts, Daenerys turned to him, a wide smile on her face. Jon was struck by the beauty of the picture; her with him on the dragon, mountains far beneath them. The gods had truly cursed him.

Daenerys leaned back to speak to him, so close that some stray hairs were blown into his face by the wind. “Your capacity for being miserable would be impressive, if it was not so tiring”, she said. “Not even you can tell me that this is not glorious.”

“It is”, he admitted. “But I thought you wanted me miserable.”

“Oh, I want nothing more.” Her hand reached back to pat his thigh; a reminder of what was inevitably going to happen, sooner or later. “Still, I would think that a face as handsome as yours should not be wasted on moping.”

 _I'm not moping_ , he almost said, but didn't because that would make their exchange entirely too light-hearted, and light-heartedness was not what he was supposed to be feeling. It had to be because they were flying, Jon thought, and reminded himself that she had also been atop Drogon when she'd burned King's Landing.

“Have you ever met Robin Arryn?”, she asked. “He is your – what do you call the cousin of your cousin?”

“I don't know”, he said. “And I haven't met him. Sansa knew him well, when he was still a sickly child.”

“Well enough to send him her infant son, it appears.” Under them, what could only be the Eyrie came into sight, perched high on top of a mountain, a thin stone path leading down for many miles. Jon could understand why they said it was impregnable.

As they came closer, they could see soldiers running out onto the balconies, heard orders being shouted. Daenerys scoffed. “If I wanted to kill them, there would be nothing they could do. Why even try?”

Why indeed? Jon was very aware that she was flying to meet potential enemies with no-one but him and Drogon. That they had been flying for hours, him behind her, and he'd even been allowed to keep Longclaw. That he could've killed her once again with ease.

Except that he couldn't, and wouldn't, and this was her way of showing him that she knew this; that he was powerless even with a sword on his hip.

Drogon slowed his flight before he landed on the largest balcony the Eyrie had to offer, giving those on it just enough time to get out of his way. Stone crumbled as they landed.

A small group of men-at-arms awaited them, swords drawn. Unperturbed, Daenerys stepped off Drogon's shoulder, and Jon followed reluctantly.

“Put down your swords, sers”, she said, sounding bored. “If we had plans to kill you or your lord, we would have already done so.”

“Do as she says”, a voice said from within the castle, and the soldiers immediately obeyed. As they parted, a young man stood before them, dressed in sky blue, a falcon pin at his throat.

“You are Daenerys Targaryen, then”, he said, before his eyes flicked to Jon. “And – Prince Aegon, I assume?”

Jon was all too aware that he looked as much like a Targaryen as anyone without silver hair could. Daenerys was making him dress like her now; all red and black and dragon sigils. She'd given him a slim circlet made of Valyrian steel, too, and said that she had a crown in store for him for after their wedding. He'd always refused to wear a crown as King in the North.

“Then you must be Lord Arryn”, she said. “I am glad to find you in good health. We were beginning to worry in the Red Keep, having to wait so long for a reply to our raven.”

The boy gave a small bow. “I must apologise for delaying my response. Would you like to discuss this with some refreshments?”

 

It was madness, walking into the Eyrie by themselves, sitting down with Robin Arryn and eating his food as if he couldn't kill them at any moment; as if he food itself couldn't be poisoned. Daenerys seemed entirely unconcerned, however. Perhaps it was Drogon outside.

“Now, Lord Arryn”, she said as they had sat down in a light-filled solar, “we are indeed here to discuss the matter of you bending the knee. You must be aware that we will burn the Eyrie to the ground if you do not.”

She said this in an entirely pleasant tone, but Lord Arryn couldn't disguise the fear her words caused. “Truth be told, Your Grace, I have been taking my time in replying to your request in order to first confer with my bannermen. All the lords of the Vale are on their way to the Eyrie as we speak, and I had planned to convince them of the wisdom of my decision before relaying it back to you. The death of Lord Royce has caused quite a stir.”

He was a far cry from the boy Sansa had described to Jon. Daenerys took her time in taking a bite off a small apple tart. “Would you enlighten us as to what this decision is, my lord?”, she then asked.

The boy nodded slowly, seeming to enjoy a sip of the fine wine he'd offered them. “More than three hundred years ago, your ancestor Visenya flew to the Eyrie upon Vhagar, and my ancestor Ronnel bent the knee in order to avoid any bloodshed. Should you be willing to forgive my father's betrayal of your House, I will be glad to do the same.”

Jon was quite sure that Ronnel Arryn had been no more than a child, and that it had been his mother who'd done it. Daenerys didn't bother to contradict Robin's story, however, and smiled at him instead. “You are wise beyond your years, Lord Arryn. You must make arrangements to travel to King's Landing soon, then, as you will have a coronation to attend. You will not be punished for your father's crimes.”

“You are most merciful, Your Grace.” The boy looked at Jon as he said that, and he wondered if anyone beside Daenerys would ever understand that she had shown him the opposite of mercy.

“There is another matter, I fear”, she said. “You and my dear betrothed Aegon”, a small nod to him, “of course have a few mutual cousins, including the Lady Sansa. It has come to my attention that she has a son.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Lord Robin seemed uncertain for a moment, closely eyeing a piece of roast ham on the table. “The boy is here”, he then said.

Daenerys' smile grew, and Jon wondered if anyone was left who was truly loyal to Sansa. From what he'd heard, Bran had done nothing to help her, her husband had sold her out in exchange for a regency, Arya had left, he himself would most likely stand by Daenerys at her execution, and now the cousin she had cared for when he'd been a child was giving up her son before he'd even been asked to.

“Then he must be brought back to Winterfell, my lord”, Daenerys said, a dried apricot in her hand. “It pains me that both your cousins Brandon and Sansa must die for their crimes, but the boy Eddard will be made Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, as is his birthright. He will be raised by his father.”

“Once again, you show great mercy.” Jon almost wanted to laugh. “Would you like to see the child, Your Graces?”

 _Your Graces_. Jon had been a king before, but even then no-one had called him that. Being a prince was perhaps even stranger.

 

“He has Sansa's eyes.” After he'd said it and Lord Robin looked at him in surprise, he realised it had been the first time he'd spoken since they'd got there.

They were in the High Hall of the Eyrie, looking down at an infant in a crib. “Good”, Daenerys said. “I am glad to know we have the right child, then.” Little Eddard blinked at them a few times and stuck his thumb in his mouth.

While Jon was still trying to discern other familiar features in the child, Daenerys had already lost interest. “Maester Wolkan, is it not?”, she asked the man who'd come in with the boy. He hadn't seemed too surprised when he'd seen them, and Jon assumed that Lord Arryn had told him everything.

“Yes, Your Grace”, he said, quite nervously. “I am overjoyed to see you so well.”

Daenerys laughed. “I doubt that. Tell me, maester, as the learned man that you are – how shall I punish you for the treasonous act of aiding the rebell Sansa Stark? You did smuggle the child out of Winterfell on her behalf.”

“Well, Your Grace,” Wolkan nervously fingered his chain, “as a maester, I am bound to serve whoever rules the castle I am in. I never chose the Lady Sansa. I am not even from the North.” He looked to Jon for help.

The man had served them well when he'd still been at Winterfell, just like he'd done for the Boltons before them. As he had pointed out, maesters had no choice.

“You are sworn to Winterfell, and yet you do not seem to be there at the moment”, Daenerys mused. “It rather appears that you worked for the self-styled queen of a realm claiming independence, and went so far as to leave the boundaries of the realm she claimed in order to do her bidding. That means serving her, not Winterfell.”

“Please, Your Grace”, Maester Wolkan said, but was addressing Jon this time. “I have served you once, you know I've always only done by duty.”

What was there to say? Daenerys was right. She was the true queen, Sansa was rebelling against her, and he had served Sansa. “If we had found you in Winterfell, maester”, Jon said, “I would have spoken to support you.”

“If we had found you in Winterfell, I would have left you to serve Lord Rickard and young Eddard”, Daenerys said. Jon was inclined to believe her; she'd never had a problem with the maester. “Would you rather die by dragonfire, or”, she looked towards Lord Robin, “I believe you have your own method of execution in the Eyrie?”

Suddenly, the young lord seemed very interested. “We do, Your Grace. We call it the Moon Door.”

“Lord Arryn”, Wolkan said now, “I am a man of the Vale, the son of Gulltown merchants. I am your subject, my lord -”

“You are a maester”, the boy interrupted. “Where you were born makes no matter. And I would never attempt to overrule my queen.”

How quickly he'd developed this loyalty. “Drogon or the Moon Door?”, Daenerys asked, and the maester hung his head. “The Moon Door, but Your Grace -”

“Do shut up”, she said. Lord Robin had gesticulated at a few guards, who were beginning to open what turned out to be a hatch in the floor revealing the vastness of the sky, and the mountains many hundred feet beneath them. Carefully, Jon stepped closer, peering down and wondering...

“Drogon would catch you”, Daenerys said right into his ear. “I wasn't going to”, he replied, relatively confident that he was telling the truth.

Two guards dragged Wolkan right in front of the gap, and then let him go, leaving him to stand on the edge. Daenerys stood straight, and Jon realised that he really was standing right beside her as she did this. “I, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die.” As they all looked at him expectantly, Wolkan did nothing.

“Most people close their eyes when they do it”, Lord Robin offered. “Some find it easier with their backs turned. One time a man tried to sit down on the ledge before he jumped, but he fell while he did it.”

“I can't”, Wolkan whispered as he sunk to his knees. “Your Graces, _please_ , I could be of use -”

“Oh, give him a shove, will you?” Daenerys was looking at him.

Of course she'd have him do it – kill his former maester. Then again, this man wouldn't have had do die if Jon hadn't killed _her_. As he stepped forward, Wolkan's eyes widened in panic. He tried to reach for Jon's legs, then his hands, anything to hold on to, but all it took was a swift kick to the chest. Maester Wolkan flew through the Moon Door with a scream, Jon stumbled back and quickly found his feet.

“A peculiar method”, Daenerys remarked with a look at Lord Robin, who seemed perversely happy. “I do believe that fire is more satisfying.”

“Perhaps, Your Grace, but this adds the suspense of seeing if they'll do it themselves.” The boy made a sign to his guards, and they wordlessly went to closing the hatch once more.

Like when he had been forced to cut Ser Brienne's head from her lifeless body, Jon was most shocked at how little he'd felt. In a sight daze, he wandered back to the crib.

Little Eddard was dozing peacefully, still sucking his thumb.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to those who liked Wolkan. Omelettes, eggs. At least he now finally has some peace and quiet somewhere in the Seven Heavens, maybe. I promise that the people you all actually _want_ to see die will get their due as well.


	32. Yara X | Cella IV | Anders VII

Yara X

She still wasn't sure what was actually in the chest that had arrived from King's Landing, but she assumed it contained severed heads. As two of her men carried it into the dungeons, half-molten ice kept leaking out, although the contents sounded relatively dry, and there was no overwhelming stench emitting from it. Winter and a lot of salt must've helped with that.

“Our queen's gift for you, Lady Stark”, Gwyneth announced. The soldiers deposited the chest on the ground with a loud thud and Sansa walked up to the cell door, glancing at it with trepidation. “Some sort of body part, no doubt”, she said.

After a nod from Yara, the men opened the chest. They were indeed presented with two heads, still quite well-preserved. One was blond, the other brunette.

Sansa turned away, but not quickly enough to hide her quivering lips. “Friends of yours?”, Yara asked.

The girl didn't respond and kept her back turned to them. “If it is any consolation, my lady, the queen has found your son safe and in good heath at the Eyrie.” Gwyneth was clearly enjoying this. Yara had come to admire the Dornish appetite for vengeance.

No reaction came from Sansa. “Your Arryn cousin was very happy to give him up”, she added. “He's bent the knee to Daenerys. A bit of a waste of time, overall, sending the boy away. We wouldn't have harmed him.” If the Dragon Queen hadn't come back from the dead, Yara probably would've had the child raised as a thrall, but one had to respect the wishes of one's allies.

When Sansa still didn't reply, Gwyneth sighed in feigned sympathy. “It must be difficult, my lady. Your brother never helped you, your sister left, your husband has betrayed you, your cousin has handed over your son, and of course your _other_ cousin, Prince Aegon, has sworn his loyalty to the queen in order to atone for his sins against her. You are truly alone.”

She thought she could see a tremble in Sansa's shoulders. “Aegon's killed your maester”, Yara added, then took Gwyneth's hand. “If you're gonna ignore us, we might as well leave you alone with the heads.”

 

“Do you not think it strange?”, Gwyneth asked her as they were in Yara's, formerly Sansa's, solar. “That the queen would _marry_ him instead of burning him alive?”

Yara sighed and poured them both a cup of ale. They had brought their own provisions and more were arriving from Dorne, but no wine had got to them yet. “She'll have her reasons”, she said. “I've never met him, but by all accounts he's the most Stark of them all, despite of who his true father is. Gloomy, not big on talking, and honourable to a fault.”

“And yet, he killed her.” Gwyn stared into her cup, obviously unhappy with its contents. “I suppose she will want to continue Targaryen tradition. Apparently she has also promised to wed her future daughter to my nephew.”

“Your father must be thrilled.” A knock on the door interrupted them, followed by Ryswell. “Ah, the future regent of Winterfell”, Yara said. “Have you heard of your queen's present for your wife?”

“I have yet to speak to anyone who did not mention it.” He poured himself some ale and joined them. To her own surprise, Yara had found that she didn't really mind him. She certainly couldn't blame him for turning his cloak, considering the alternative. “Lady Brienne and her former squire, I was told?”

“How did she know them?”, Gwyneth asked. “I only know that this Ser Brienne was the Lord Commander of the Usurper's Kingsguard.”

“I think she was my wife's sworn shield once.” From the way he was shaking his head, it was clear that he found the whole idea absurd. “In any case, that red priest of yours has received further information about the Her Grace's visit. I do not believe that Winterfell has ever housed two queens before and it is a headache, but at least she has commanded that both her and the prince be quartered in the same chambers.”

“Before their wedding? How scandalous”, Gwyneth said, not sounding scandalised in the least.

“It is not how things are usually done in the North, but I am glad that I do not need to find suitable rooms for a prince, too.” Rickard had a large sip of ale. “And then there are all the lords and ladies, too. For all my lady wife's faults, I was always quite glad not to be included in the tedious details she had to take care of when ruling.”

Yara put her feet up on the table and handed him her empty cup to refill. “You betrayed your wife for this regency. If I were you, I'd try to learn quickly.”

 

 

Cella IV

“One bundle each!”, the soldier shouted. “If you have children to feed we need to see them!”

Standing in one of several orderly lines, Cella waited her turn. Ever since Her Grace had retaken the city, the Dornish troops had been regularly handing out food and clothes. They'd also begun to restore the water supply and bring in building materials, and were giving out gold to any former shopkeepers.

“I can't believe I'm sayin' this”, a man in front of her told Cella, “but the priests were right.”

She smiled at him. “Of course they were, brother. The legions of the Lord's light have come at the behest of the One Who Was Promised. And now they're taking care of us.”

He frowned. “You're in deep, aren't ya?” With that, the man turned away from her.

Was she? He had just said it himself – the priests _had_ been right. If anything, he wasn't in deep enough, Cella decided.

After him, she got her own bundle. Bread, hard cheese, fruits and vegetables, a small sack of oats, butter, and a piece of bacon were all wrapped up in a woollen cloth far larger than was needed, so that it could be of use as well. It wouldn't be like this forever, they'd said, only until everything was finally back to normal and there would be shops and markets once more. She almost wished it would never stop.

Happily biting into a pear from her bundle, Cella made her way back to the brothel. Until recently, it had been the only fully restored building in the street. Now, there was activity all around it; shops and houses being rebuilt, neat piles of bricks getting in her way and dust filling the air. When she recognised a woman who'd seemingly come from another life, Cella came to an abrupt stop.

“Don't I know you?”, she asked her. The woman was her mother's age and currently shouting orders at a few builders.

She looked Cella over. “Well, I know you. You're one of the whores from down the street.”

“Well, yeah.” She frantically tried to remember. The point where they were standing, the house she was rebuilding... “Oh, of course. Didn't you own the tailor shop?”

“I did. They just gave me gold to build it back up. What's it to you?”

The Lord of Light had truly heard her prayers. “My mother was a seamstress”, Cella said. “She taught me.”

“And where's your mother now?” The woman seemed unconvinced.

“Dead. I've got things at the whorehouse, I can make something and show it to you if you don't believe me. I don't need much, just a bit of food, a roof over my head, and a few coppers a week.”

The woman hummed, looked her over once more. “Take that rag you've got your food in and make it into a tunic. Make sure it fits you well and that your stitches are tight, and then come find me when I've opened up shop again.”

Cella beamed. “I will. May the Lord shine His light on you, goodwoman.”

“And seven blessings to you, my dear”, the seamstress replied, tone dry. Cella was taken aback at first, but if R'hllor wanted her to work for one who followed the false gods, then she wouldn't argue.

 

 

Anders VII

After having essentially secured the Reach at Tumbleton, the Prince of Dorne found himself in an inn at the Gold Road, meeting with the few Westerlands lords who'd heeded his call. His men had practically taken over the inn, supplemented by a few of Lord Gendry's as his host was marching northwest from the Stormlands. A Targaryen banner here and there, and the place almost looked like it was suitable for a meeting of the high nobility.

“My lords”, he said from the top of the table, “you are all well-aware of the situation, and I will not bore you by recounting it. As it stands, you have no chance to win this, and can either swear fealty to our true queen, or die. Which shall it be?”

As the lords looked at each other, he understood that this would be more difficult than his meeting with Hightower. “Good prince”, Lewys Lydden said, “the Dragon Queen has killed two Lannisters, and will soon burn another, from what we hear. We are all sworn to the Lannisters. You cannot possibly expect us to bend the knee to her.”

When the others murmured their agreement, Anders slowly shook his head. “My lord, the Lannisters have committed numerous crimes against House Targaryen. Queen Daenerys was at war with Cersei, and Lord Tyrion has committed the vilest sort of treason against her. She is well within her rights to execute him.”

“Forgive me, my lord”, Lord Payne replied, “but Dorne's hatred of the Lannisters is well-known. In the Westerlands, we do not share it.”

A Spicer raised his cup to that. “We will be ruled by Lannisters and those they choose as king. If your Dragon Queen can convince Lord Tyrion to bend the knee and then sends him back to the Rock, she'll have no problem with us.”

Anders was already sick of them. “If it is the House of your Lord Paramount that matters so much to you, my lords, we shall be able to find a solution. You all know even better than I that you cannot throw a rock in the Westerlands without hitting some minor Lannister. We will find the next in line and it will be done.”

“Lord Tyrion is the rightful Warden of the West”, Lydden announced. “Lord Spicer speaks true. If she pardons him, we shall accept her as our queen.”

Where did this sudden loyalty to the Imp come from? Men would really profess their love for anyone as soon as they were presented with an alternative they disliked more. “What kind of queen would pardon the Hand who betrayed her?” There was no way on earth that Daenerys wasn't going to kill Tyrion, after all. “And do not even think to suggest the Wall.”

Several mouths closed. “The kind of queen, dear prince”, Payne said, “who marries her murderer.”

He was quite sure that he could hear suppressed snickers. “Prince Aegon is Her Grace's kin. Lord Tyrion is not. Tell me, my lords, do you wish for another field of fire?” They didn't have an answer to that. Anders supposed he would have to stop trying to argue and just metaphorically shove the enormous dragon in their faces.

“This is not a game, and not a negotiation”, he said, standing with his hands on the table. “We are not haggling over trading rights or tax concessions, if that is what you are trying to accomplish. The queen has the power to raze the Westerlands to the ground until each of your castles is a pile of rubble and everyone you know has turned to ash. As you might be able to infer from the fate of King's Landing, she has no qualms about using this power.” He stood straight. “As I said in the beginning: you can bend the knee or die. We will make sure a Lannister rules Casterly Rock; that is Her Grace's gracious gift to you. There will be no other concessions, and there is nothing else to discuss.” As he strode out of the room, he added: “We will expect ravens with your answers within a fortnight.”

Daenerys' treatment of Prince Aegon must've hurt her credibility in a way, Anders thought. Perhaps it would be a good thing if she burned a castle or two.

 


	33. Daenerys V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably controversial:

She'd made a great show of having Drogon circle over Riverrun, and by the time they landed in the snow-covered courtyard, its denizens were ready to welcome them. A man who could only be Edmure Tully stood at the front of a crowd of retainers, accompanied by a comely woman heavy with child, a small boy by her side.

To her delight, they were all on their knees by the time she'd stepped off Drogon's shoulder, Aegon behind her. “Your Grace”, the Lord of Riverrun said, “I beg your forgiveness for not responding to your raven. As much as I had hoped them to be, I could not know if the reports of your return were true.” A likely story. As with Lord Arryn, it seemed like his fealty had required her personal presence. “Will you do me the honour of accepting my oath nonetheless?”

She regarded them cooly. The presumed Lady Tully was almost falling over, so large was her belly, while the boy and much of the household were staring at Drogon with wide eyes. “You may say your vows at the Red Keep, Lord Tully, in the full view of all the realm”, she decided. “You must begin your journey soon, as you have a coronation, a wedding, and an execution to attend. Arise.”

Edmure and his entourage did just that, him extending a helpful hand to the lady beside him. He still gave Daenerys a little bow after, and she decided that he certainly showed the appropriate amount of deference. “I must thank you for your gracious display of mercy, Your Grace, and”, he looked towards Aegon, “Your Grace.” Her nephew didn't reply. “May I present”, Tully continued, “my wife, the Lady Roslin, and our son, Edmyn.”

While the lady attempted a curtsey that seemed to be made much more difficult by her condition, the boy managed a good enough bow. He must have been around five years old, Daenerys thought. “And another on the way”, she said with a look at Lady Roslin's belly. “You seem to be blessed with a wonderful family, my lord.”

He politely accepted her compliment and bid them inside. Riverrun was a picturesque castle, if not a bit lacking in grandeur. Perhaps her voyage to Valyria had spoiled her.

 

“I am pleased that you, like your nephew the Lord Arryn, have had the wisdom of bending the knee”, she told him as they sat in a small room with wide windows, offering a pretty view of the Riverlands. Young Edmyn had been sent away to his maester.

“It is not a question of wisdom, Your Grace, but of honour. How could we not bow to our rightful queen?” As he spoke, servers dished up a spread of cold meats, cheeses, and jellies; the variety constricted by the reality of winter.

“Your words are sweet, my lord, but I do not recall you aiding me in the fight against the usurper Cersei Lannister.” Daenerys held out her cup for a pour of wine, while Edmure seemed unconcerned by her allegation. “I swear on my honour as a Tully that I would have been there, my queen, had I not been imprisoned in my own castle by the Lannisters. Only your defeat of the Mad Queen brought me my freedom.”

Even Aegon expressed surprise at that. “Did Arya not free you after she poisoned the Freys?”, he asked while Daenerys pointedly passed him a piece of bread. He wasn't eating enough.

Now, Lady Roslin came close to spilling the water she'd sensibly chosen over wine. “It was Lady Arya who did it?” Then she immediately shook her head. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I do not mean to infer that she acted unjustly. The House I was born into committed a terrible crime.”

Now, it came back to Daenerys. She'd been the one Lord Edmure had married at the Red Wedding, of course. “No need to apologise, my lady”, she said kindly. “The virtual extinction of one's House is painful even when it appears justified.”

Lord Edmure cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, it appears that my niece inconveniently forgot about my continued imprisonment. Of course, I would not have expected her to be capable of freeing me considering I was being held by a small garrison, but if she was able to kill the entire population of the Twins...” His glance shifted to his wife, who put on a brave face.

“Well, in either case”, Daenerys said, “I had not been made aware of your continuous imprisonment at the time, and for that I apologise. Needless to say, it absolves you of not coming to my aid.”  
With a pained smile, he helped himself to a piece of veined cheese. “I would express surprise that none of my Stark nieces and nephews had mentioned this fact to you, Your Grace, but then again they have never given the impression that they cared much for House Tully.”

Daenerys looked to Aegon, who'd been sullenly eating until now. “It was not discussed while I was at Winterfell”, he admitted.

All this, of course, explained the warm welcome they'd received. Coupled with what Prince Anders had told her of the Great Council, it was unsurprising that Lord Edmure had been quick to turn against the Starks. “Considering your trials, my Lord and Lady Tully, I am glad to see your family reunited once more, and in your rightful place.” Daenerys always thought that kind words to one's loyal subjects were a good strategy, even if their loyalty had been questionable until now. “It goes without saying that House Tully retains the position of Lord Paramount of the Trident under my rule, and this means that we must discuss your bannermen. Lord Vance was the first to bend the knee upon my return to King's Landing, and for that he should be rewarded. Ser Edmund Blackwood, on the other hand, had served the Usurper.”

“Do you wish me to punish the Blackwoods, my queen? Some of their lands could be given to House Vance.” He was going in the right direction, but: “Some to House Vance, and some to House Tully, I should think. I shall draw up a royal letter for you so it will not appear as if you are unjustly enriching yourself.”

Nobody could say that she didn't reward her allies.

 

They would be staying at Riverrun for a few days, mostly owing to a snowstorm in the North that would make flying entirely too unpleasant – though not impossible, as they'd learned when they'd fought the Night King.

After supper with the continuously gracious Tullys, Daenerys decided that it would be a good time to have a moment alone with her betrothed. She'd asked for them both to be in the same chambers at Winterfell because she was sure that being there would torment him more than anything else, and he might as well begin to get used to it now.

“That was a pleasant evening, was it not?”, she asked after the door to her bedchamber had closed behind them, and unclasped the padded leather overcoat she wore when flying in the cold, carelessly throwing it onto the back of a chair.

“Lord Edmure does not put his pride before his life”, Aegon replied, uncertainly standing by the door while she fell back into an armchair. Without the cloak, she was in a light silk gown she'd had made while in King's Landing, sleeveless like Princess Gwyneth's. “I presume it helps that your cousins have wounded his pride beyond repair. Come here and help me out of these boots.”

This forced him to kneel before her and put her feet in his lap while he worked at the laces, and she was sure it made him wonderfully uncomfortable. “If they have a daughter, they should perhaps betroth her to little Eddard Stark, or to Ynys Yronwood's younger son”, Daenerys mused. “The older one must of course wed our second daughter.”

At that, his eyes shot up to her face. “You seem very certain that we will have children.”

“Oh, I know we will.” She smiled as he slid the first boot off her foot. “Our first son and first daughter will wed each other, as per the tradition of our House.” He looked grim as usual as he was working on the second boot. “No protest?”, she asked. “I seem to recall you being opposed to the idea of even bedding your aunt.”

His fingers paused for a heartbeat, then resumed. “I told you. I was conflicted.”

Daenerys laughed. “That seems to be your perpetual excuse, yes. You know, I have done some research, and it does appear that Jonnel Stark wed his niece Lynara, and Edric Stark his half-niece Serena.”

“I know.” He took off the second boot. “I had a lot on my mind.”

“That is just another way of you saying you were conflicted.” He made to stand, but her feet gently held him down. “The stockings, too.”

With some trepidation, his hand reached up past her knee, having to slide her gown up as he did so. While he tried to somehow grasp the hem of her stocking without touching her thigh, she said: “Of course, we both know what you having a lot on your mind ultimately led to. I think you should see it.”

“See what?”, he asked, alarmed, just as he had taken off the stocking. As soon as his eyes met her face, she slid her arm through the right strap of her gown, baring her breast and what was beneath it.

She heard Aegon's breath hitch, while his eyes could not decide if they should focus on her breast, or on the deep stab wound that he'd caused her. “I'm so sorry”, he whispered. “I cannot – there's nothing I could say that could justify it. There is no excuse. I don't deserve”, he pointed at her, and him, their intimate position, “any of this. And I don't deserve to marry you either.”

Finally. This was more than he'd said in weeks. “You don't”, she agreed, “but it can only be you. Don't you see? You almost brought our House to extinction, and to atone, you must now help to continue it. This is your chance at redemption, Aegon.”

He looked at her in a whole different way, then. There was still pain, but less fear, and maybe even a hint of the admiration he used to show her. Daenerys poked at his chest with her foot. “You're not done.”

His eyes flicked to her exposed breast again before he got to work on her second stocking, sliding up her gown much more slowly, fingers gliding over her flesh as he uncovered it. Yes, this was a vast improvement.

“Do you remember the boat?”, she asked, and he almost, _almost_ smiled. “I'll never forget the boat.”

He looked at her again when he took the stocking off her foot and tossed it aside. This was undoubtedly the right moment, she decided, and slid her feet up his chest until they rested on his shoulders. She slipped out of the other strap of her gown and moved her hips to the edge of the armchair, feeling his shoulders rise with the deep breath he took as she bunched up her skirt at her waist. “Come on”, Daenerys said. “I know you are good at this.”

Being with him had always felt better than with any other man. To some extent, she knew that this was because he was indeed very good with his tongue – a memory she'd found confirmed after he'd kissed his way down the insides of her thighs, hesitant at first, but quickly gaining certainty. This was fundamentally _right_ , she thought as he elicited the first moans from her, throwing back her head and tangling her fingers in his hair. This was who they were, how they were meant to be, by virtue of their blood. Losing herself to pleasure, she almost thought she could see the both of them on the altar in the temple in Valyria, suddenly having no doubt that they wouldn't have been the first. When she came with Aegon's head pressed firmly between her thighs, she could see the vision continue, and knew that she needed something more; needed _his_ want.

He pulled away, her legs still around his neck. He was breathing quickly, but his face showed a myriad of emotions she didn't care to decipher. He was still _thinking_ , as if what she wanted him to do wasn't the most primal thing of all.

Daenerys stood and discarded her gown, then walked over to the bed with his eyes following her. “Take off your clothes”, she said, vaguely aware that she'd once told Daario the same. But who was Daario to her, now? He certainly wasn't the blood of the dragon.

She laid back on the bed, legs spread invitingly and toying with herself as he, still seeming terribly unsure, shed his clothes. “Stop holding back”, she commanded while he walked towards her, much slower than she'd like him to. “Take what you want. What you _really_ want.” She'd have to wake the dragon somehow.

He was hard and she desperately wanted to touch him, but first... As he slowly leaned towards her, Daenerys shot up and pulled him into a kiss, grabbing his neck as she fell back down. That was what did it, finally. He groaned into her mouth, grabbed her breast, and entered her with a deep stroke.

She could almost feel the altar in Valyria under them as he moved inside her, glowing runes digging into her back instead of soft sheets. This was a greater moment of triumph than her landing on the Red Keep; him finally tossing aside his self-loathing and his guilt, even though she usually enjoyed them. It had become tiresome, and now _this_ , him taking her with no inhibitions, biting her lips as he held her hands above her head – this was so much better. Daenerys could feel the pleasure coursing through him, could hear the sounds he made as he pinched her nipples and roughly grabbed her thighs to spread them wider; bruising her in the best of ways. The thought crossed her mind that he'd just hate himself even more after this, and that was good, too.

When he came, her legs snapped around his hips, making sure he'd stay inside her. They had a dynasty to continue, after all, and they'd be wed soon enough.

He collapsed on top of her, trying to catch his breath, then slowly rolled off. With a small smile, she tried to see him without looking at him too obviously. He was staring up, the old stab wounds on his chest rising and falling in the same slowing rhythm as her own.

“I -”, he began after a while, but she cut him off. “If it is either self-pity or an apology, then I do not want to hear it.”

Aegon closed his mouth. Quite content, Daenerys grabbed herself a pillow and curled up, not caring if he'd stay or go, or how long his undoubtedly swirling thoughts would keep him up. She was more than ready to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Edmure still being held by the Lannisters during S8: At the very least, there's nothing suggesting that it didn't happen.


	34. Anders VIII | Jon V

Anders VIII

After his journey to the Reach, it felt good to return to King's Landing. This was in large part due to the cheering crowds who greeted him; a consequence of the efficient (and well-propagated) Dornish efforts to rebuilt the city.

Once in the Red Keep, Anders convened Ser Ryon, Lord Gendry, Grey Worm, and Daario Naharis in order to be brought up to speed. The two commanders had “cleaned up the city”, in Naharis' words, filling the dungeons with all sorts of the vilest criminals, while Baratheon had been responsible for walking the streets and inquiring about the needs of their subjects.

There were much more important news, however. “The queen and Prince Aegon have secured the fealty of both the Vale and the Riverlands”, Ser Ryon announced. “By now, they will be at Winterfell, while the Lords Arryn and Tully are travelling to King's Landing.”

“Excellent”, Anders said. “On my way back, I passed the camp of the Stormlands army, the Unsullied, and the Ghiscari near Tumbleton. Should the lords of the Westerlands decline to swear fealty to our queen, they will be able to strike quickly.”

“I have received orders from the queen to travel to camp and lead the Unsullied”, Grey Worm said. That was sensible; going by what he'd heard of Meereen, Anders was sure that Naharis would be able to handle King's Landing by himself.

“Then I would advise that you ride today”, he said. “Has Her Grace given any indication of her preference for Lord Baratheon's whereabouts? It would be wise for you to be seen at the head of your army.”

“The queen has only required that all Wardens and Lords Paramount be present for her coronation”, Ser Ryon said. There wasn't a date yet, as all depended on when they'd secure the entire realm. “Have you ever led troops, Lord Gendry?”

“I haven't”, he said. Anders thought that he always looked vaguely uncomfortable in the presence of the highborn; something he would need to get used too sooner rather than later. “I've fought, but I've never led. I've been learning about strategy a bit, but not much.”

“I can teach you strategy”, Grey Worm offered. “But not how to lead Westerosi. They are too different from Unsullied.”

“There will be other lords present”, Anders said. “You will not be obliged to make all decisions yourself, my lord.”

“I could go as well”, Naharis suggested, but Ser Ryon shook his head. “You have been extremely effective at commanding the City Watch, ser. You are needed here.”

The Tyroshi could hardly argue with a refusal based on praise. With that settled, they were left with two items on the agenda. “Any news about Bronn?”, Anders asked.

“Lord Baelor has sent word that, in the wake of your meeting, he has instructed his sister to inform us of his whereabouts”, Ser Ryon said. “They appear to have fled Highgarden after Her Grace took King's Landing and are now likely somewhere in the Reach. He has taken his wife with him as a sort of hostage, I suspect, but once she is able to get word out, she will be his downfall. As it seems, she is not too fond of her husband.”

“She's how old, again?”, Lord Gendry asked. “Seven-and-ten? I'm not surprised.”

On that topic, Anders realised: “If we hadn't promised to marry her to the next Lord of Highgarden, she would have made a suitable match for you, my lord. You must wed soon.”

“I know. You were the one who tricked me by offering your daughter's hand”, Gendry replied, then adding: “My prince.”

A fair point. “We will leave the matter of marriage for after this is all done”, Anders decided. “How does the dragon?”

“Good”, Naharis said. “There isn't anyone around anymore who saw Daenerys' dragons when they were that young, but we think he's doing fine. He's certainly eating a lot. Still, it couldn't hurt to have her back here.”

“That should not take much longer.” Anders was satisfied with the overall situation. “I am also happy to report that work on the throne seems to be going well. It should be ready by the time Her Grace returns.” They'd had to bring in artisans from all over Essos for what she'd wanted; some of them mages, he suspected. It was a good thing that she'd arrived in Westeros with a bag full of ancient treasure, which had certainly helped fill the crown's coffers. “Now, I would suggest that you, Grey Worm and Lord Baratheon, prepare to join your armies. I will summon the red priestess Sennora so she may send word to Winterfell, and to find another priest to accompany you, in the interest of quicker communication.”

With everything he was doing, Anders was quite sure that he could expect another reward from the queen. The Valyrian steel greatsword he'd named Sunbeam had been a fine price for giving her King's Landing – unexpected, but certainly appreciated. The promised marriage between her hypothetical second daughter and his grandson represented a fitting continuation of the traditional alliance between Dorne and House Targaryen, but would remain hypothetical for many more years.

In truth, there was exactly one thing he wanted, though he suspected that Daenerys was aware of this. He was already acting as her Hand, and had the impression that he was currently being tested in that capacity. If he'd be able to deliver her the Reach, Bronn, and either the peaceful surrender of the Westerlands or an easily won war, she would likely make it official.

 

 

Jon V

“Where did all these men come from?”, he asked as Drogon circled above Winterfell. The still-ruined castle was surrounded by tents, leaving no doubt as to how the North had fallen so quickly.

“Some from the Iron Islands, but most from the Bay of Dragons”, Daenerys said, bringing Drogon closer to landing. “You know, I am still the Queen of Meereen. Maybe I will take you one day.”

It was always easy to forget that she held a whole different kingdom far across the Narrow Sea; that she'd overthrown ancient cities long before ever setting foot on the mainland of Westeros.

Jon hadn't decided yet whether it made him a worse or a better person that he had regained much of his admiration, even _affection_ for her. That when he saw her now, he not only felt pain and guilt, but also fondness.

And lust. That only complicated things further – the person he'd become every night he'd shared a bed with her in Riverrun was a stranger to him, but she seemed to approve. Perhaps becoming that stranger was what would lead to his redemption? Since when did he even think that he had a chance at that?

Lost in his thoughts, he was surprised by their landing. They were in Winterfell's great courtyard, as snow-covered as ever, even though the storm had let up. Jon was introduced to Yara Greyjoy, cocky like her brother had once been; Princess Gwyneth of Dorne, who seemed as slick and well-spoken as her father, a red priest named Nabho – and Rickard Ryswell.

“We've met before, Your Grace”, Sansa's husband told him. “Although I doubt you will remember. It must have been more than ten years ago, when I was still a boy.”

Jon was sure he'd met a few Ryswells throughout his life. “When you were still a boy, my lord”, Daenerys said, “and Prince Aegon was the Bastard of Winterfell. Now he will rule the Seven Kingdoms by my side, and you will rule the North – for a good fifteen years.”

“I can already hear the sand flow through the hourglass, Your Grace”, Lord Rickard said. While they moved inside the Great Keep, Daenerys suggested he could give Ryswell advice, seeing as he'd ruled the North before. In truth, Jon doubted that it would be quite the same experience with half the nobility gone and no army of the dead to contend with, but he still couldn't bring himself to place much trust in Lord Rickard as a ruler – not that there was anything to be done for it.

 

“I must say, I do not have the fondest memories of this place”, Daenerys announced. The were sat in the Great Hall – only her, Jon, Queen Yara, Princess Gwyneth, and Lord Rickard at the high table, as well as a few guards, and little Eddard in a crib next to them. The lords and ladies of the North, heavily guarded and mostly brought here against their will, would be addressed the next day. The red priest had given them a quick rundown of events in the south, which seemed overall positive, and had since returned to gazing into the flames.

“You were fighting the army of the dead last time, to be fair”, Greyjoy said, though Jon knew that that was not the only thing his queen was referring to. Before that conversation could continue, however, the doors to the Great Hall opened, and two Ghiscari soldiers brought in Sansa.

It was obvious that she'd spent a few weeks in a dungeon cell. Her dress was torn and dirtied, her hair a tangled mess, her wrists bound together by heavy chains that made a loud clang as the soldiers forced her to her knees before them. Her eyes briefly darted to the crib, which Daenerys was rocking back and forth with an overly sweet smile.

“Jon”, Sansa said from down there, staring at him intently. He'd almost gotten used to wearing Targaryen colours and the Valyrian steel circlet Daenerys had supplied him with, but suddenly, he was extremely conscious of his getup.

“That is Prince Aegon to you”, Daenerys replied sharply, and Sansa scoffed. “You can dress him up all you like, but his name is Jon. It always has been, and it always will be.”

Was that true? Jon, or maybe Aegon, honestly didn't know. Daenerys said something in Valyrian to one of the soldiers, who gave Sansa a punch to the face.

She didn't cry out, but they could all see the pain on her, even though she quickly turned her face back into a mask. _“Jon”_ , she said again, and there was a nod from Daenerys, then a kick in the stomach from the other soldier. This time, Sansa let out a small, chocked scream.

“Do not let her do this”, she said as she'd straightened up again, only addressing him. “I am your family, and this is our home. Do not let her take it. She is no better than any of them; she has had the ironborn take Winterfell like when Theon betrayed us, she has burned King's Landing as her mad father would have”, another nod, another kick, a louder scream. “She is having me beaten by her men like Joffrey did”, Sansa spat out. “Another abomination born of incest; I suppose it makes sense. Do not betray your family for _that_.”

“Betrayal?”, he asked, unconsciously placing his hand on Daenerys' arm in an attempt to calm her. Jon didn't _like_ seeing Sansa hurt, but her words incensed him. “You broke an oath sworn in a godswood. It doesn't match my crimes, aye; I killed my queen. Still, it was a crime in the eyes of the gods – and in the eyes of men, considering you kept saying that I should be your king, even though I doubt that that was what you really wanted.” And how did she dare to call the queen an abomination? “Daenerys is my family, too”, he added.

He could feel everyone's eyes on him, but could see only Sansa as she looked at him with more disgust than he could've ever imagined. “I should have known when we spoke back before the dead attacked”, she said. “You have been a lost cause ever since you met her. What would my father say, knowing that you are so willing to betray your family for the first woman who'll spread her legs for you?”

Before Daenerys could command the soldiers again, he turned to her. “Do not do it this way”, he urged. “We have a saying in the North. The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

She looked surprised, then nodded and rose, gently pushing aside Eddard's crib. The babe was paying no mind to any of it. “Alas, I cannot breathe fire”, Daenerys said as she walked around the high table, heels of her boots loud in the silence filling the Great Hall. “But I can do other things.”

He spared a quick glance for the others. Greyjoy and the Dornish princess seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, but Ryswell appeared uncomfortable. In an odd way, Jon was glad for it; at least this husband of hers didn't like seeing her in pain.

Not that he himself hadn't just told Daenerys to hit her. Jon knew from his own experience how vicious her slaps could be.

As she stood over Sansa, who'd normally be towering over her, she said: “We could have had it so easy, you and I. But of course you are a conniving, treacherous little hypocrite, and it was never meant to be.” Her slaps flung Sansa against one of the soldiers' legs, then against another, and finally on the ground behind her, eliciting louder screams each time. He caught himself leaning forward on the table to get a better view, then was slightly disturbed at having reacted that way.

“You will burn tomorrow, Lady Stark”, Daenerys said, walking behind her to hoist her back up by the hair. “But what will the lords and ladies of the North see? Their queen, the great beauty, holding herself with the greatest poise and dignity even as she steps onto the pyre? That would not do, would it, Lord Rickard?”

Ryswell, taken aback by suddenly being addressed, scrambled for an answer. “No”, Daenerys continued before he could find one, “that would make your betrayal of your wife seem all the worse. Do you like her hair, my lord?”

He had put himself back together. “It is a renowned sign of her beauty, Your Grace.”

Sansa looked panicked as Daenerys unsheathed her dagger and brought it close to her skull, the Valyrian steel cutting through her hair with ease. Strand upon copper strand fell to the ground, soon followed by Sansa herself, when there was nothing left to hold her up by.

Daenerys gave more orders in Valyrian, and the soldiers promptly began to drag Sansa back out, roughly grabbing her by the arms. Having her hair reduced to irregularly shorn-off tufts would not take away her ability to put on a brave face the following day, Jon knew, even though it might mar her appearance.

“She will be tortured all night”, Daenerys announced then. “After her second marriage, I doubt that a few slaps would faze her. We cannot have her appear too proud tomorrow.”

As if that was the only reason the queen wanted to see Sansa hurt.

 

They had been given the Lady of Winterfell's chambers; a good move by Ryswell, considering Daenerys' known preference for warmth. As every night since they'd got to Riverrun, they'd slept with each other; Daenerys riding him until he'd flipped her over and taken her from behind. Now they were lying next to each other, catching their breath.

“You said something about a pyre”, he remarked.

Her smile was cruel. “I have. It is a lot slower than a straight blaze from Drogon.”

“Wouldn't that be enough?” He turned to his side to look her straight in the face. “I understand that you want to hurt and punish Sansa; I know she deserves it. I'm not even asking you to just have her beheaded. But you could still make it quick, could have her turned into ash like Varys.”

Daenerys ran her fingers down his arm. “We need to make a spectacle out of her execution. The lords must hear her scream, must see her charred remains. It will serve as not only vengeance, but also as a warning.”

He sighed. “I should have never told her about my birth.”

“I did tell you that.” She had been right the whole time, he knew.

“You called letting me live a punishment, and yet”, Jon pointed at their naked bodies, “this isn't one.”

“Is it not?” She raised her eyebrows. “I was under the impression that being constantly reminded of your guilt and being forced to watch the deaths of your friends and family was quite cruel.”

“It is, but then...” He wasn't really sure what he was getting at. “Seeing Sansa in the Great Hall didn't make me feel any worse, and neither did killing Wolkan. I don't know what it will be like to see her burn tomorrow, and I still don't want her to suffer that, but I can't blame you for doing it. Really”, he turned onto his back, “I feel like a different person sometimes, when I'm with you.”

“Good. I did not like who you were ever since the last time we got to Winterfell.” Propping herself up on her elbow, she slid her fingers through his hair. “Let us say that this is the very slow execution of Jon Snow, for all the wrongs he did me. In his place, there shall be my husband, consort, and nephew; Aegon Targaryen.”

“Aegon Targaryen”, he repeated. “It still seems so strange. I was raised as half a Stark; I don't know anything about being a Targaryen. You keep talking about Valyria and the blood of the dragon and all that, but what does it mean?”

“It means that we are the descendants of one of the greatest families to ever exist upon this planet, and that we have a responsibility to continue our line – and to rule, as we were born to do. I have seen Valyria, Aegon, and it defies all description, even in ruins. Nothing greater ever was, nor ever shall be.” She traced a pattern across his chest, and he realised soon that it followed the spiral of their three-headed dragon. “Three of our ancestors conquered this entire continent. I alone turned Slaver's Bay into the Bay of Dragons. I became the khal of khals, which would be an accomplishment even if I was a man and had been born a Dothraki. You became the King in the North as a bastard. We found each other despite all circumstances. When you murdered me, I came back from the dead, as you once have.” Her violet eyes bore into him. “The blood of the dragon means destiny, it means greatness, and it means the world kneeling at our feet.”

That was never what Jon had thought of himself, nor what he'd wanted. He remembered her on Dragonstone, telling him that he'd spent his whole life _feeling more sorry for yourself with every title and every bit of power that was laid at your feet_. It had all come to him, hadn't it? Lord Commander, King in the North, heir to the Iron Throne. And all he'd done was miserably accepting his duty, at least with the first two.

Not wanting to think about it too much, Jon – or perhaps Aegon – pulled Daenerys into a kiss. If there was one thing he could admit to himself, it was that working on continuing their dynasty was a task he greatly enjoyed.

 


	35. Yara IX

Sansa's execution took place in Winterfell's godswood, right next to the burned-out husk of the weirwood tree. Yara wondered if anyone knew that it had been Daenerys who'd lit it from Drogon's back, on her way beyond the Wall.

The lords and ladies of the North were assembled at the sides, flanked by ironborn and Ghiscari soldiers, some shivering in the gently-falling snow. On a newly erected dais, Daenerys sat upon Sansa's former throne, Prince Aegon and Lord Rickard on each side, Yara and Gwyneth standing behind them. Targaryen banners flew next to Greyjoy, Yronwood, and even Stark ones, while Drogon was perched on the walls, overlooking them all. In the middle of the godswood, a pyre had been erected, Sansa's crown lying at the bottom of the stake.

She'd wondered if Daenerys would hatch another dragon; she'd mentioned to her that she had a second egg. When she'd asked, the other queen had announced that she was saving it for King's Landing.

The Northern nobles had been whispering to each other as they watched them on the dais, probably about Prince Aegon. They had known them as their king and a Stark bastard once, though now, he was clad in black and red, Valyrian steel on his head; mirroring his queen. Daenerys truly had an eye for aesthetics.

When two Ghiscari soldiers brought in Sansa, the whispering stopped. With her hair so badly shorn, chains around her wrists and dressed in rags that revealed the cuts and bruises she'd sustained the night before, she hardly looked a queen. The soldiers bringing her in weren't holding her up, forcing her to limp to the pyre as all eyes were upon her. Yara wasn't sure what they'd done to her legs, but it must've been quite bad, as she fell into the snow halfway through her walk.

For a moment, Sansa didn't get up, until one of the soldiers grabbed her by the collar of her rags and forced her back to her feet. Tears were shining on her face, and she had no more hair to hide them with.

When she'd reached the pyre, she stopped to turn to the dais. “Jon Snow, Rickard Ryswell”, she forced out even though she clearly had difficulty speaking, “I name you traitors to the North.”

“The only traitor here is you”, the prince replied, and Yara exchanged a glance with Gwyn. Whatever Daenerys had been doing to him ever since she'd collected him from behind the Wall, it seemed to have worked like a charm.

Sansa turned away and looked at her pyre, obviously unwilling to step on, which Yara couldn't blame her for. After a few heartbeats, Daenerys nodded to the soldiers, who began to forcibly drag her towards the stake.

“Do not lay your hands on me”, she spat out, to no effect. After the last night, she couldn't put on more than a weak struggle, and she was soon atop the pyre and chained to the stake.

Daenerys rose once the soldiers had stepped away. “Behold”, she said, “the fate of those who would betray House Targaryen, the rightful rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa of House Stark, you have committed treason against your queen, and you have sinned in the eyes of your own gods. For this, I, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die.” She looked to Drogon and smiled. “Dracarys.”

The dragon brought his enormous head down deep into the godswood, breathing a gust of flame onto the pyre. Yara could feel the heat from where she stood.

At first, Sansa's gaze was fixed on the dais, presumably staring right into Prince Aegon's eyes. Yara gave in to the temptation to lean forward and look at his face, seeing his expression blank, something hard to decipher in his eyes. As the flames began to lick at Sansa's feet and caught on to the ends of her rags, she maintained her stoic facade for an impressive amount of time. Yara saw Aegon shift before her, but only to straighten himself. Rickard had much more difficulty in controlling his face, but managed well enough.

The screams began not much later. Engulfed in flames, Sansa let out the most inhuman of sounds while the smell of burnt flesh filled the godswood. Some of the lords and ladies standing by averted their gazes, while others stared at the pyre, unable to look away. Yara felt Gwyn's hand grab for hers, her lover leaning in to whisper: “It is just me or is she taking longer than Flint?”

“I don't know”, Yara had to reply. “I suppose it will always seem to take long.”

As Sansa's screams became more choked, she could see Daenerys' hand quickly squeezing Aegon's, just for a heartbeat. Gwyn's look told her that she'd noticed, too. Those two had the strangest of relationships.

When the screams ended, not much of Sansa's body was left whole, but the pyre would still be able to burn for a long time. A general feeling of relief swept over the godswood when it was clear that she'd finally died, and Yara could see the tension leave Ryswell's shoulders. He had been holding up well, though of course he had known what to expect.

Only when the flames began to die down and the blackened remains of Sansa's skull emerged, Daenerys stood again. “My lords and ladies”, she said, voice strong and clear. “I will not hold the entire North accountable for Lady Sansa's crimes. I will not even punish the entirety of House Stark.”

She looked towards Lord Rickard, who signed to a guard. Not much later, little Eddard was brought in by a wet nurse. “The Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years”, Daenerys said. “This rule shall not end today. The babe you see before you is Sansa Stark's trueborn son, Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

The whispering returned to the crowd. Yara was sure that they'd known about the child, but perhaps they'd been surprised that it had been given its birthright – or were unconvinced that this was truly Sansa's son. “As you can all clearly see, this infant cannot rule yet”, Daenerys continued. “As is his right, his father the Lord Rickard is his regent, from now until Lord Stark comes of age.”

That seemed uncontroversial. The queen sat again, regarding the dying fire for a moment. “Lord Rickard, you may now bend the knee in your son's stead.”

As he knelt before her and recited the vows, Yara observed the northern nobles. Reactions were mixed. She saw a few men and women who had to be Ryswells; the only House that had been spared the ironborn campaign coming in from the west. They didn't appear altogether unhappy about this, which wasn't surprising. Some others showed open contempt, although she doubted that they would voice it – not after what they'd just seen, and not with Drogon sitting over them.

She knew that the lords of the North were notoriously difficult to please, but pleasing them wasn't the goal. They had needed to be shown that dissent wouldn't be tolerated, and that Drogon was available whenever one of them questioned Rickard's regency.

It seemed to have worked. When Daenerys announced that it was time for them to swear fealty to her and to little Lord Eddard, all complied, even if many were very obviously unhappy about it. Lady Eddara Tallhart gave Yara a particularly hateful glare, which she replied to with a wink. Still, Eddara and all the others would now be bound by their vows. If the famed northern sense of honour still existed, that should give Rickard's regency some security.

 

Later that same day, it was time for the Targaryens to depart. Once cool enough to handle, Sansa's corpse had been removed from the pyre and strung up on a tree in the godswood. Daenerys had ordered Rickard to have her moved to the crypts once the last of the lords had left; both Yara and Gwyneth suspected that this command had been given at Prince Aegon's request.

As they were assembled in the courtyard once more, although this time to see them off, Yara was once more surprised by just how united the queen and the prince appeared. She would love to be able to know what was on Jon's/Aegon's mind after he had just seen a woman he'd considered his sister burned at the stake. Outwardly, he was just his usual taciturn self.

“Queen Yara”, Daenerys said, “I must thank you for your great help in pacifying the North.” That certainly was one way to put it. “I now ask you to take the iron fleet south towards the Westerlands. We will find a red priest to meet you on the way, as you”, she turned to Nabho, “will remain in Winterfell in order to facilitate our communications.”

Or rather, to let her know what Ryswell was up to. Yara nodded her agreement while Nabho bowed, and Daenerys continued. “Lord Rickard, the North is yours to rule for the next fifteen years. I will take most of my Ghiscari troops south, but some will remain so they may assist you in case any of your bannermen decide to rebel. Should this be the case, Prince Aegon and I will be able to quickly come to your aid. Do also let me know about any further plans you have for marriage.”

Rickard could do nothing but agree. After Yara's campaign had emptied the North of any men-at-arms that had been left, Daenerys' Ghiscari were the only actual soldiers this side of the neck, and beholden to her. A great way to ensure Ryswell's compliance.

“Princes Gwyneth”, Daenerys said now, and Yara tensed. She knew that they wouldn't be able to stay together forever, but she could only hope that they wouldn't be separated so soon. “Your lord father has not given any orders concerning your whereabouts, as far as I am aware.” Gwyn confirmed that. “Then you may travel down the kingsroad with my men, or join Queen Yara on her ships.”

Yara relaxed. Not yet, at least. “I will travel with Her Grace”, Gwyn said, and Daenerys gave them a knowing smile. “Very well, then. I expect that we will meet somewhere in the Westerlands soon, although Prince Aegon and I have business in the Reach beforehand.”

They said their farewells, and then watched the Targaryens take off into the skies. Rickard looked after the dragon for a long time.

“I actually cannot believe that all of this just happened”, he then said.

Yara snorted, and Gwyn gave him a pat on the back. “Do not think about it too much; you have a lot of work to do.”

“I know.” He stared towards the Great Keep. “I have to see all these lords off and try not to get murdered by any of them, write the citadel for a new maester, distribute the rest of the provisions you brought to the smallfolk, get as much of Winterfell rebuilt as I can before the weather turns again...” He sighed. “And find a new wife.”

“You could try Eddara Tallhart”, Yara suggested, and Rickard narrowed his eyes. “I just told you I did _not_ want to get murdered.” While she sniggered, he remembered to add: “Your Grace.”

To be fair to him, she herself tended to forget she was a queen, though there was no time to dwell on that thought. It would take a while to get to the Westerlands.

 


	36. Jon VI

“You did well in Winterfell”, Daenerys told him as they were riding Drogon high above the Reach. “You did not even flinch when Sansa burned.”

They hadn't spoken about it yet. He wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her closer against his chest. “She called you an abomination”, he said. “She called me a traitor, when the two of us are the only reason she lived to do that.”

His queen leaned back her head to look up to him. “So you did not mind?”

“Of course I did”, he had to admit. “It's a terrible thing to do to anyone, and she was still my kin. But I know she deserved it.” As he did, but that was neither here nor there.

“Which one of us do you think the northern lords want to see dead first?”, Daenerys asked. “You or me?”

He shrugged. “They're for Ryswell to handle now. I can't say I envy him.” He looked down upon the fertile lands below, a far cry from the northern landscape. “They will hate and resent us for a a few years, but it won't last forever. At least there'll still be a Stark ruling Winterfell; that should appease them.”

“Sansa did do us a favour when she decided to marry so quickly”, Daenerys said, comfortably leaning into his chest as Oldtown came into sight. “With Brandon in the dungeons, that still leaves one Stark unaccounted for. Arya.” He tensed. “What do you think she would do if she returned to Westeros?”

“Kill us all”, he said without hesitation. “She's wanted you dead since King's Landing, at the very least.”

“I know she is supposed to be a great assassin”, Daenerys replied, “but I am still not sure if she could accomplish _that._ ” She looked up at his face. “You don't want her to die.”

“She's been my sister far more than Sansa ever has.” The thought of Arya on that pyre was far more disturbing. “But we don't know if she'll ever come back.”

“True.” Daenerys looked out towards the Hightower, casting a shadow over all of Oldtown as they began to circle in on the city. “I do not understand it anyway. If she wanted to know what was west of Westeros, I could have just told her. The Sunset Sea goes on for a very long time, and then you come upon the easternmost part of Essos. The world is round; your maester should have taught her that as a child.”

“He has.” Behind Oldtown, the could see the very ocean Arya was sailing. “I think she just wanted to cross the Sunset Sea. Not that she's a sailor, but she's always liked an adventure.”

“She's welcome to it. Ser Ryon has found out that she left on a ship bearing Stark sails, and I have informed the red priests. Should her ship dock in any port in Essos, they will know. It is likely to arrive in Asshai, anyway.”

“And then what?”, he asked. “Will you have her killed? Or brought back to Westeros?”

“I will have her watched.” Daenerys flashed him a quick smile. “As long as she remains outside of my lands, I will not have her harmed; it is not worth it. I know she can disguise herself, but the red priests have a magic of their own. They will be able to keep track of her.”

“She'll try to come back as soon as she hears what happened here”, he said. “Some trader will have told another, and then another, until some version of the story makes it all across the world.”

“If she ever steps back onto Westerosi soil, she will have the same choice as everyone else.” Join or die. “The same applies to Meereen, I should say.”

He knew that Arya would either try to kill them all or run away before ever bending the knee to the woman who would have had two of her siblings executed by that point, and could only hope that she would somehow decide to make a life for herself in Yi Ti or someplace else.

That was a worry for the future, however, should she even make it all the way across the sea. For now, they were landing on one of the lower terraces of the Hightower.

 

The view of Oldtown was beautiful, but they had other things to focus on. Sitting around a table erected on the terrace were Lord Baelor Hightower; the heir to his House, three archmaesters, and three of the Most Devout of the Faith of the Seven.

“We thank you for gracing us with your presences, Your Graces”, Lord Baelor said while they were all poured wine from the Arbor. “And I speak for many Houses of the Reach when I say that I congratulate you on your swift reconquest of Westeros. It was high time that the long succession of usurpers was ended, and House Targaryen returned to its rightful place.”

“Sweet words, my lord”, Daenerys said, violet eyes piercing him from beneath her Valyrian crown. “And yet, you have done nothing to aid us.”

Baelor bowed his head in acknowledgement. “The situation was confusing, Your Grace, but that is no excuse. I can only beg for your forgiveness.”

While Daenerys took her time enjoying a long swallow of wine, some eyes flicked towards him, but he wasn't going to say anything. “You are forgiven, my lord, though just this once”, she finally said. “And only because you have aided us in uniting the Reach against your terribly placed former Lord Paramount.”

Many heads nodded along at her mention of Bronn. “My sister has sent word, Your Grace”, Baelor said. “A rider came to Old Oak, and the Oakhearts have sent a raven that just arrived hours before you. Bronn is making his way towards the Westerlands and should now be close to the Red Lake. Both House Oakheart and House Crane have sent out scouts to apprehend him and free my sister.”

Daenerys smiled, and he already knew what she'd say next. “That will not be necessary, my lord. Prince Aegon and I will fly out to find them as soon as we have everything settled here.”

A few men looked up, where they could see Drogon circling the Hightower. “The Seven have blessed your House with a great beast once more, Your Grace”, one of the septons said. “In the Starry Sept, we have prayed on this for a long time, until the Crone came to us with Her wisdom. We can now preach that it is a sure sign from the gods that House Targaryen has their blessing.”

Her smile was thin and forced. “I am glad to hear that. When will the Most Devout choose a new High Septon? I should like us to be anointed by His High Holiness himself when the time comes.”

“Our prayers have not yet been answered, Your Grace”, a septa said. “But we are sure that the time will come soon. Will your coronation take place in the Starry Sept, as that of Aegon the Conqueror?”

“In King's Landing”, Daenerys replied, and the septons' disappointment was clear. “A new Great Sept shall be built. Prince Aegon and I will be wed on the grounds we have chosen for its construction, and will be anointed there, too.”

The Most Devout could accept that, this much was clear. However, the third septon spoke: “Do Your Graces have any intention of expelling the red priests? We hear terrible tales of them having converted half the city -”  
“My subjects are free to choose their own faith”, Daenerys interrupted. “A new temple to the Lord of Light will be built as well, although the Crown will not pay for it.” All three opened their mouths, and she added: “There is no argument to be made here. I tell you the same that I will tell the red priests: you may try your best to convert the people, but the Crown shall take no part.”

This wasn't all of it, he knew. They would also hold a ceremony wedding and crowning them before the red god, and a third in the godswood. For Daenerys, it was all the same; she seemed to believe that any god was just a different expression of the only ones who truly existed; the ones of Valyria.

“I believe that this is a good compromise”, Lord Baelor interjected with a stern look at the Most Devout. “After all, the Usurper never even deigned to speak to the Faith.”

With that part concluded, it was time for the last. “Archmaesters”, Daenerys said, forcing the three old men to cease their drinking and join the conversation. “As Prince Anders has told Lord Baelor, I will not insult the Citadel in the way of the Usurper by appointing my own Grand Maester. Have you convened the Conclave yet?”

“Indeed, Your Grace”, one on them said. “We are down to three candidates. The decision will be made soon.” The other two looked at the archmaester with what appeared like disdain, and he wondered if the three candidates were the ones before them.

“Excellent.” Daenerys rose abruptly, making everyone else stagger to their feet as quickly as they could while Drogon soared down towards them. “Aegon, we have a traitor to catch. Lord Baelor, you may expect to see your sister soon.”

 

“Oldtown”, Daenerys said as the city disappeared behind them. “How come the Hightowers get both the Citadel and the centre of the Faith? If I were Lord Baelor, I would be sick of all those old men and their squabbling. Their elections are fights, not based on true choice, so I do not see why they would bother pretending.”

“For the same reason you pretend to follow the Seven”, he said, and she laughed. “Perhaps. Now, let us find this Bronn.”

Once they had arrived in the northern parts of the Reach, this turned out to not be too difficult. They spotted a small party of riders bearing the sigil of House Crane when they got close to the Red Lake and landed next to them, Drogon leaving no doubt as to their identity. Once the riders had recovered from their surprise, they told them that a few peasants had seen Bronn ride westwards along the shore of the lake.

From atop a dragon, they weren't difficult to spot. The expensively-armoured man on the large warhorse had to be Bronn himself, accompanied by a young, blonde lady, and five guards.

The horses reared as Drogon landed before them, almost throwing off their riders. They heard the men curse and look around, but really, there was no way for a horse to outrun a dragon.

“Bronn”, Daenerys shouted while he descended from Drogon's shoulder, Longclaw drawn, “you have been sentenced to die. The sentence will be carried out now.”

The guards looked at them; Daenerys on Drogon and him standing by them with Longclaw, then Bronn and his young wife. They rode off as speedily as they could.

“Scum!”, Bronn shouted after them, grabbing Lady Dyonne by the arm and almost throwing her to the ground as he dragged her off her own horse and onto his. “If you want to kill me, you have to kill her first”, he announced, the terrified girl trying to free herself from his grip as Bronn held her in front of him.

Drogon roared. The sound was enough for one of the deserting guards to fall off his horse in the distance while Lady Dyonne's fled, and made Bronn's buckle and rein madly, until its riders lay on the ground.

“Aegon”, Daenerys said, but he hadn't needed to be told. Swiftly walking towards them while their horse ran off, he reached them before Bronn could untangle himself from his wife, and pulled Lady Dyonne up. “The queen won't hurt you”, he told the girl before giving her a push in Drogon's direction, then turning to find Bronn's sword swinging towards him. He parried the blow just before it could hit his face.

Bronn was a skilled swordsman and had the advantage of wearing armour, but was no match for him and his Valyrian steel. At the end of a short exchange, Bronn tried to hit his side in a two-handed swing. Instead, Longclaw sliced through both his wrists, sending his severed hands and sword to fall to the ground.

As Bronn screamed, he placed a cut at the back of his knees – not deep enough to take off his legs, but making him kneel.

He walked back towards Drogon, wiping Longclaw on his coat as he watched Lady Dyonne stand next to the dragon, staring at her mutilated husband with wide eyes. As soon as he'd reached her, he heard Daenerys give the command.

It was a much quicker death than the pyre; that couldn't be denied. The sellsword didn't even have time to scream when Drogon's flames engulfed him, leaving nothing but ash after just a few seconds.

He sheathed Longclaw. The girl next to him looked very young and very afraid, shaking as she watched him with wide, teary eyes. “My lady”, he said, nodding towards Drogon. “We will deliver you back to the Hightower.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again, one finger pointing uncertainly towards the dragon as he lowered his shoulder. Seeing an amused look come from Daenerys, he sighed and offered Lady Dyonne his hand, assisting her onto Drogon's back.

Riding a dragon wasn't for everyone, he supposed. To truly enjoy it, one would have to be a Targaryen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really couldn't be bothered with drawing the whole Bronn thing out.


	37. Anders IX | Cella V

Anders IX

When Anders opened the door to his black cell, the Grand Maester shrunk back from the brightness of his torch. In its flickering light, the prince could see that Tarly's robes had been reduced to nothing more than torn, dirty rags. The stench emanating from the cell made him gag as he watched the captive sitting in a corner, saw that he'd lost a fair amount of weight during his imprisonment, and that his fearful eyes were peering towards him through the hands clasped in front of his face.

When they'd caught him while they took the Red Keep, he'd been in his chambers, clutching a sword. According to Anders' men, he'd swung it towards them once or twice before dropping it to the floor to yield.

“Is it time?”, the man asked him in a thin voice. “For my trial?”

Anders shook his head. “Not quite, my lord. I have merely come to inform you of the goings-on in the Reach.”

Slowly, Tarly's hands left his face, although he was still blinking rapidly in the light. “When will I be tried?”

“I am afraid there will not be much of a trial.” If Anders were him, he wouldn't be so eager. “I have just received a raven from Her Grace. The queen and Prince Aegon have found the false lord Bronn on the run in the Reach. They have rescued the Lady Dyonne from his clutches, and have executed him using dragonfire. Not unlike your lord father and your brother, I should say.”

“Prince Aegon?”, Tarly asked, ignoring the rest. “Has she found another secret Targaryen?”

He blinked. He knew that the Grand Maester was aware of Aegon's true parentage; that he'd known even before the prince himself. “No, my lord”, he said slowly. Had the dungeons dulled his senses so much? “I am speaking of your old friend, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.”

“What?” Tarly stared at him, forgetting about the light. “Jon? That's impossible.”

In a way, Anders supposed that his incredulity was justified. They did live in strange times. “The queen has found His Grace beyond the Wall”, he explained.

“You are lying”, Samwell accused him. “If she had found him, she would have killed him.”

“That was what we all expected”, Anders admitted. “But Her Grace is not a kinslayer, and seeks to maintain her line. For his crimes, Prince Aegon has been condemned to live with them. They will be wed and anointed as queen and king consort shortly after your execution.”

Tarly winced. “You seem very convinced that I will be executed, but I have not even been tried yet.”

“A trial is not exactly necessary, my lord.” Anders smirked down at him. “You have attempted to entice the prince to treason, you have supported the usurper Brandon Stark, and you have deserted the Night's Watch – the false king allowing it does not change the fact. As you cannot possibly deny any of this, I cannot imagine an outcome where you would be allowed to walk free.”

“What if I demand trial by combat?”, Samwell asked, and Anders held back a laugh. “Her Grace has outruled that possibility. Besides, I can hardly imagine that anyone would be willing to be your champion, and I have not heard any reports implying that you are a great fighter yourself.”

“Jon would fight for me”, Tarly said, much to Anders' astonishment. “ _Prince Aegon_ ”, he corrected, “is the queen's most loyal subject. He would not, even if the possibility were there.”

“He should be King Aegon”, came the reply, and Anders nodded. “There it is again: treason. The prince has renounced his right to the crown in atonement for his sins, although he will be a king by marriage to the queen. Either way, if you will take my advice, Tarly”, he peered down at the man, “you should give up on hope that you will come out of this alive. Tyrion Lannister and Brandon Stark will be burned atop a pyre in the Dragonpit, but you are not well-known enough for that to be much of a statement. If you are lucky and show yourself sufficiently humble, you may receive the mercy of a quicker death.”

With that, he stepped back and nodded to the gaoler, who closed the heavy cell door with a deafening thud. Anders felt quite good about himself as he made his way back up to the higher levels of the Red Keep – seeing one's enemies in the back of a stinking cell always brought some amount of satisfaction.

 

“Well, dear good-father”, Ser Ryon said as they stood atop the map of Westeros, “it appears that the lords of the Westerlands have made their choice.”

“And a foolish one at that.” Not that he was complaining. “I believe that it will be quite good for our queen to be able to make an example. If she only burns Silverhill or Deep Den and has the ironborn sack Lannisport, the rest should fall in line quickly.”

Ryon stepped to the Westerlands, looking down at the map. “Do you think they believe her to have gone soft?”, he asked. “With what was essentially a pardon of Prince Aegon.”

“It did sound like that when I met with them.” Anders' foot pointed towards the coast. “The iron fleet is close to Lannisport already, and our army only a day's ride from Silverhill. They do have the mountainous terrain to contend with, but their numbers are overwhelming, and Drogon should have no trouble either way.”

“I am sure the ironborn will enjoy getting to take a city.” Ser Ryon looked towards the isles. “They have been doing a lot of the work in helping our queen, especially considering that they are not bound to her by fealty.”

“They have. I will ask Gwyneth of Queen Yara's motivations, although I am almost afraid that she has grown too close to her.”

Ryon snorted. “Close, yes. That is one way to put it.”

Anders raised his eyebrows. “Have you been spying on your good-sister, ser?”

“Of course.” Ryon was completely unapologetic. “Ynys is always complaining that Gwyneth does not write to her often enough. Someone has to keep her informed.”

“I imagine that she does grow quite lonely in Sunspear, with all of us gone.” Anders turned to look towards Dorne. “When this is all over, I hope to be named Hand of the Queen.”

“Reasonable, my prince”, Ser Ryon replied. “I assume I will not be needed as master of whisperers, then?”

“Indeed. One Dornishman on the small council will suffice.” Anders stepped towards Sunspear. “With me in King's Landing, Ynys will be the de facto ruler of Dorne. She will need your counsel and your spies, and your sons will need their father.”

Ryon followed him to the south of the map. “Agreed. Will you send Gwyneth back to Yronwood?”

Anders nodded. “She will not like to be separated from her ironborn queen, but she is no fool; she will know that it must happen. They can always visit. And she must wed, too.”

“Find her a Dornish husband, then”, Ryon advised. “I do not think anyone else would be content with her having a paramour.”

That was a good point. “I like what we have built here, ser”, Anders said. “I will help the Targaryens rule from King's Landing, Ynys will rule Sunspear, you will have Godsgrace when your lady mother passes, and Gwyneth will have Yronwood.” He tapped on each of the places with his foot. “Daron will hopefully wed a Targaryen princess and then rule from Sunspear one day, and Osmond will have Godsgrace after you.”

“Are we settled on the names, then?”, Ryon asked. That was a problem, of course: When Ynys had married him, she hadn't been Anders' heir. Their sons were both born into Ryon's House; Allyrion, but Anders would not have the future prince of Dorne bear any name but his.

“It is done”, Anders said. “Daron will be named Yronwood, and Osmond will remain an Allyrion.” An uncommon arrangement, but one that should satisfy all parties. “Now”, he said. “Do you have any knowledge of Naharis' whereabouts? I will need to ensure that the dragon remains well, or I will fall out of the queen's good graces very quickly.”

 

 

Cella V

Work at Goodwoman Nellis' tailor shop was hard, in a good way. Cella's fingers hurt at the end of every day and her back ached from being hunched over fabric for hours on end, but it was nothing compared to the whorehouse. The seamstress was fair, too; she paid Cella the agreed amount each week, gave her more food than she needed and her own room atop the shop, and let her go see the red priests light the nightfires every evening.

This afternoon, she was working on a shift when Nellis returned from the harbour, followed by a few men carrying bundles of fabric. “I've got news you'll like”, the seamstress announced while directing the men on where to place the bundles. “All the traders are saying that the queen's gonna return soon.”

May R'hllor light her way. “And then she'll burn the traitors?”

Nellis snorted, giving the men a few coppers and sending them back to the port. “I guess. You followers of the red god are too eager to see people burn for my taste.” She inspected Cella's previous work. “You'd think we've had enough of that.”

“It will cleanse them of their sins.” Cella began to set decorative stitches at the top of the shift. “You should come to see the priests talk tonight.”

With a chuckle, Nellis stowed away the shifts Cella had sown earlier, clearly satisfied with her work. “You should come to the sept. Did you know the queen has promised to build a new Great Sept?”

“I heard that she'd build a Great Temple to R'hllor.” She took a short break for a drink of water – that was, since last week, available again from faucets throughout the city.

“Maybe it'll be both.” Nellis sat to continue working on a bodice. “Remember how we used to talk about the old gods and the new? What is your Lord of Light, then, the newest? Are the Seven old gods now?”

Cella shrugged. “R'hllor is the one true god. The rest doesn't matter.”

“There are as many one true gods as there are believers, dear.” Nellis shot her a look. “I don't care who or what you believe in, nor what the rest of the city does. Your temple can be right next to the new Great Sept for all I care.”

“Fine”, Cella said, picking her sewing back up. “Follow the false gods all you want. I know that we were saved from the Usurper by the true queen riding a dragon, and if that's not proof of R'hllor's power, then I don't know what is.”

“The septons are saying that the Seven blessed her with the dragon”, Nellis said, and Cella rolled her eyes. “Be that as it may”, the seamstress continued, “I can't say I'm not looking forward to seeing Bran the Broken die, either. After all the shit we've been through, King's Landing needs that.”

There, Cella could agree. People were calling for blood, or fire, or any kind of great spectacle that could make them feel that justice had been served.

But from what the priests were saying, she knew that it wouldn't be long.

 


	38. Daenerys VI | Jon VII | Yara XII

Daenerys VI

While her army attacked Silverhill, Daenerys flew north for Deep Den. Its lord, Lewys Lydden, had sent a most insulting letter to the Red Keep instead of promising to swear fealty.

Now, he'd have to pay for it. She made no attempt to disguise herself as she approached the keep; a stout little castle partially built into the mountains, with high walls and three short towers. She could see trenches around it, as if they'd been preparing for an army attacking.

She could also hear shouting as she neared, saw people running back and forth in panic.

When they landed on top of the highest tower, they were greeted by a barrage of arrows. Drogon stood up on his legs, shielding her with his body as the arrows hit his chest, not affecting him in the slightest.

He sunk back down and gave a mighty roar, the sound momentarily freezing all activity in the castle. Daenerys watched them from up on high. The archers were positioned on the ramparts, drawing new arrows with shaking hands. Down in the courtyard were half-armoured soldiers and, next to the stable, a grown man and a woman accompanied by a younger man, a maiden, and a small boy. The Lyddens, she assumed from their dress, who had just tried to get on their horses and flee.

Everyone looked terrified, and rightly so. “Dracarys”, she said. Drogon's flames engulfed the archers before they could fire a second time.

In the courtyard, people screamed, while she had Drogon bring his body down onto the ramparts, his massive claws ripping at stone, his growl echoing in the mountains around him. He cleared the still-burning archers from the walls with his wings as he perched himself atop them, some of the bodies falling down just at the feet of the Lydden family.

They stared at her in horror as behind them, soldiers began to scramble out of the castle gate. “Lord Lewyn Lydden”, Daenerys shouted down. “You have made your choice, and you will pay for it.” The little boy had begun to cry, clutching his presumed sister's legs. “Your children may leave”, she decided.

A spear flew towards them from one of the braver soldiers, but Drogon caught it between his teeth, snapping it like a twig. The scrambling at the gate intensified. At this rate, she wasn't sure just how the children would get out of the castle.

When she got no response, she decided on a different approach. Aiming at the tower they'd sat on just before, Drogon let out a prolonged gust of flame. If anyone had been inside, they were now most certainly dead, as stone began to melt and and run down the tower.

In the courtyard, she could see the Lyddens taking each other by the hand and running for the part of the castle built into the mountain. With a sigh, she made Drogon descend to land before them and block their bath, crushing a soldier who'd been in the way.

Like this, she had no choice than to burn the soldiers who hadn't escaped through the gate yet, lest they attack her. While they danced in Drogon's flames, a part of the tower collapsed on some others.

Now able to return her attention to the family, she got a better look at them. Lewys Lydden was a short, stout man with brown hair and a cropped beard. Clutching his arm was his wife; a tall, blonde woman. The young man appeared to be their oldest child, already taller than his father. The maid was perhaps five-and-ten, and the youngest maybe seven. He had his small head pressed against his sister, sobs shaking him as tears ran down her cheeks.

“I will only say this once more”, Daenerys proclaimed. “Your children may run, and they will have to do so now.” Their way out was cleared now, at least, even if it was littered with ash and burned-out corpses.

“ _Go!”_ , Lord Lydden shouted at his hesitating children. The girl began to drag the small boy towards the gate, pressing her free hand to her face to silence her chocked sobs, but the young man adamantly shook his head, face full of rage. “I cannot -”

“I said go, you fool”, his father hissed. “You must protect them”, his mother added.

He turned to Daenerys, demanded: “My mother, too.”

“No”, she replied plainly, seeing as he was in absolutely no position to negotiate. “Lyran, _please_ ”, his sister shouted, standing at the gate with the small boy.

He gave her a hate-filled look before running towards them, and Daenerys smirked down at Lewyn and his wife. “Did you really think you could defy me?”, she asked, and added before they could respond: “Dracarys.”

After the short time it took them to burn, Drogon took to the air again, bathing the castle in fire. Stone cooked and burst, wooden parts burned, towers collapsed. It was called Deep Den, of course, and she had no doubt that the greatest part of the structure would reach into the mountain, and that half the household would be safe in there. Really, the Lyddens should have hid inside rather than attempting to escape a dragon. Still, destroying the outer part should be enough.

It felt a lot better than burning King's Landing, likely because she'd planned this. The sheer power of it; the fact that her and Drogon could just fly up to a castle and destroy it at will – this was how Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya had conquered Westeros, after all. This is what Visenya had done with rebellious lords even after the conquest. The continent had needed this reminder.

After the outer castle was mostly reduced to a molten pile of steaming rubble, she took Drogon to fly high, spotting the Lydden children on a hilltop, where they stood and watched their home burn.

Daenerys landed behind them, prompting the young man – now Lord Lyran Lydden of Deep Den, she supposed – to pointlessly draw his sword as they turned towards her.

“You said we could go”, he shouted up at her.

“I did not say you would be free”, she replied. “Throw away you sword, and that dagger at your hip. If you do not, I will turn your siblings to ash.”

He had mastered the hateful glare very quickly, she thought while he discarded his weapons; probably not the only ones who was carrying.

Even with the threat of dragonfire, it took some convincing for the small boy to climb onto Drogon's back, and Daenerys realised with dismay that having him pressed up to her would stain her cloak with tears and snot.

Still, the other two could be dangerous. She made Drogon hover in the air to grab one in each talon, much to their shock. She wasn't entirely sure if it would harm them or not, although he had got her to Volantis that way without any additional damage.

At the same time, if it did hurt or even kill them, that would just mean fewer prisoners to take care of.

 

 

Jon VII

Silverhill had been well-defended, but it hadn't been able to hold up to their large force of Ghiscari soldiers, Stormlands troops, and Unsullied. The eunuchs had been the first over the walls, facing the defenders without fear and slaughtering them with faultless efficiency once inside.

He wasn't far behind, either. Longclaw cut down man after man; piercing through visors, opening veins. It was exhilarating, being in battle again, even though he'd never felt that way about it before.

Not long after he'd climbed the walls, just as he plunged his sword deep into a badly armoured man's chest, the Unsullied had succeeded in advancing to the gate and opened it for the rest of their men to storm the castle. He spared a glance at them, Gendry at the front with his hammer, before slicing off the head of a man running towards him.

When it came to steel, at least, Daenerys had a point regarding the superiority of Valyria.

After that, it did not go on for much longer. Lord Serrett had yielded just as Grey Worm was about to put a spear through his throat, though they were in no hurry to stop the slaughter. He walked through the killing and the dying quite calmly, though covered in blood, to occasionally tell men here and there that they could stop. A few Unsullied went to find the rest of the family – Lord Serrett had a wife and two daughters, that much they knew, and at least the Unsullied could be trusted with not raping them.

Gendry walked towards him, hammer dripping with gore. “That was easier than at Winterfell”, he said.

He chuckled. “Aye. It's nice when the dead stay dead. Let's find Grey Worm before he kills Lord Serrett himself.”

They hadn't needed to worry about that. Before long, the Unsullied found Lady Serrett and her daughters, one perhaps three-and-ten, the other slightly younger. Having everyone still alive assembled outside, he had an execution block brought in.

Serrett was dragged towards him, his face showing a mix of despair and confusion. “Who even are you, my lord?”, he asked him as he twirled Longclaw in his hands.

To be fair, he hadn't been able to get any armour that would identify him. He nodded to the Unsullied, who forced Serrett's torso down over the block, while his wife and daughters began to weep.

“The queen has given you the choice of either honouring your obligation and bending the knee”, he announced, “or dying. You have chosen death, and you shall have it. In the name of Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen”, he listed her many titles, “I, Prince Aegon of the House Targaryen, sentence you to die.”

As always, Longclaw sliced cleanly through the man's neck. Lady Serrett sunk to the floor with a loud cry, but could only capture their attention for so long, as they next heard Drogon's shriek above.

Men hurried to make space for the dragon. Strangely, he was holding two bodies in his claws, who soon turned out to be a girl and a young man, both very much alive. Drogon hovered over the floor to drop them before landing.

Like everyone else, Aegon sunk to his knees when Daenerys dismounted, dragging a young boy behind her. She let go as soon as they'd stepped of the dragon, and he ran over to the girl.

“I see I am late”, the queen said with a glance at Lord Serrett's head and body, not bothering to explain the children. She briefly took in the situation before telling them all to rise.

“Find me the red priest”, she commanded. “We need to find out how things are going in Lannisport.”

 

 

Yara XII

Before they arrived at the city, they went over Daenerys' orders again – not that there was much to consider. They'd been told not to hold back; that the ironborn should do what they did best.

It had been a long time since an iron fleet had sacked Lannisport, and Yara's men were more than eager – a city famed for its gold made a wonderful target. And as it turned out, their fleet was less than impressive; a consequence of no-one really having been in charge for the last few years.

The attack had two purposes, Yara knew. It was meant to intimidate, of course; show what happened to those who would defy Daenerys. But it was also meant to reduce the wealth and power of the Westerlands in more practical terms; keep them occupied with rebuilding for a few years instead of being able to immediately plot rebellion. After all, many more Houses than just the Lannisters held important assets in the city, where much of the riches of the region passed through.

“Have you ever seen a city sacked?”, she asked Gwyn as they watched the first of the Lannisport ships take fire from the safety of her own.

“Of course not.” The city's bells were ringing in alarm, and activity was hectic while people scrambled to bring themselves to safety. “There has not been war in Dorne for much longer than I have been alive.”

“It's ugly”, Yara warned. “Maybe you should stay here; it'll be safer.”

With a laugh, Gwyn pulled out her whip. “I've seen ugly things, my love, and I've stood by for many a fight. Let me kill someone.”

 

Hours later, Lannisport was filled with screams and reeked of blood and smoke. First, the looting had been focused on the goldsmiths' shops, and then it had quickly spread throughout. The city watch had not been nearly enough to withstand them, although they had given Gwyneth her wish, with two of their number falling to her.

Now, it was pure slaughter. The two women walked along the port while Yara's men carried off anything of value they could find, raping and murdering anything that moved. They stepped over the corpse of a small boy as they watched a man carry a pretty young woman towards the ships, blood running down her face.

“So _that_ is a salt wife?”, Gwyn asked. She didn't seem disturbed by any of this, but rather fascinated.

“Aye. Or at least she will be, once they've done the ceremony.”

“Interesting.” They saw smoke rise from behind the houses lining the harbour, the screaming seeming especially intense coming from there. “What do you think they are burning?”

“Could be anything”, Yara said. “But probably a sept.” She gave her an apologetic look – Gwyn did follow the Seven, if only very vaguely.

“It is a bit unfair, is it not?”, the princess asked. “There are no temples to the Drowned God that could ever be destroyed.”

Yara nodded towards the sea. “That's the whole point.”

They were interrupted by a scream, and saw a young, bloodied man running towards them with a sword raised high. He was limping and not very fast; a pretty pathetic sight at most.

While Yara languidly reached for her axe, Gwyneth's whip had already brought him to the ground, curled around his throat. “Queen!”, an ironborn soldier shouted from a distance. He was with a few others as they were herding a group of clearly terrified septons and septas towards the water. “Want us to drown that one, too?”

She looked down at the choking man, then at Gwyneth, who shrugged. “I'll do it”, Yara decided, then added as Gwyn was about to speak up: “You can't. It's for ironborn only.”

The princess groaned as she freed the man from her whip. “I will take you to Dorne one day, then you will know how it feels.”

As they dragged the man towards his death, a red priest approached them, and Yara was relieved that no-one had thought to drown him as well. This way, they could find out how Daenerys had been doing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised that I accidentally wrote the origin story of some kind of generic fantasy hero with the Lyddens. Prologue/first twenty minutes of the first episode, after a few scenes establishing how happy their lives are: the evil queen comes and kills Lyran's parents and burns his home, he is forced to flee with his siblings and is forever haunted by his mother saying he must protect them, as well as his burning need for revenge. The rest you can imagine; his sister probably has to marry someone terrible, and Lyran definitely becomes an amazing sword fighter, and also gets married to a very pretty girl who is eventually killed by the evil queen's henchmen, or something.


	39. Grey Worm III | Yara XIII

Grey Worm III

In a large, black-and-red tent erected on a mountaintop, the Mother of Dragons finalised her subjugation of the Westerlands.

The lords of the northern half of the region had tried to hastily assemble a host, but hadn't come very far before Drogon had dissuaded them of that notion. Now, they were all here. Some had been taken by the queen herself using her dragon, others had ridden of their own volition, knowing the consequences of defiance. All had had to bring their families.

He stood behind her as she sat upon a dais, the one they now called Prince Aegon by her side. Grey Worm still couldn't believe that she hadn't killed him, but he wasn't one to question his queen.

“My lords and ladies”, she said. “A few moons ago, all of you received letters from Prince Anders of Dorne informing you of the return of your rightful queen. Most of you never even deigned to answer his call to meet, and those who did still refused to bend the knee.” Most of the nobles before them were tired, dirtied, and scared, that much was obvious. “For this offence”, the queen continued, “you all deserve the fate suffered by the Houses Lydden and Serrett. The only reason your castles still stand is geography, although I can and _will_ burn them to the ground if you do not meet my new conditions.” Grey Worm saw Lyran Lydden, the boy she'd brought from Deep Den, stand amongst the nobles with his siblings. He looked at her not unlike the families of the slave masters had.

“As befit traitors, the ruling lord or lady of every House will die.” Shocked gasps went through the audience. “Should you renounce your treason beforehand, you will be beheaded. If not, I have a dragon.” Drogon raised his head from outside the tent and let out a low growl.

Grey Worm thought that direct dragonfire could lead to a quicker death than a beheading, but it left no bones to burry.

“After that, your heirs will either swear their fealty, or burn if they refuse. I am fully prepared to go down the line of succession for as long as is needed, even if it leads to the extinction of your House.”

“Your Grace, please -”, a man began, but the queen raised a hand. “You have had your chance, my lord. You all have. Now, after each House has a new ruler who has pledged their loyalty, all other remaining family members will be taken to King's Landing, exempting spouses. They will live at court as wards, but should there be so much as a whisper of treason, they will be dragged through the streets before being executed, and then Drogon and I will come to burn your castles to the ground. Is that all clear?”

Nobody dared to respond. “Very well”, Daenerys said. “We will begin. House Brax of Hornvale.”

 

They'd had twenty-three families to go through. Nineteen of their lords chose to renounce their treason and be beheaded by Prince Aegon, while the other four were burned by Drogon. After that, not a single one of their heirs declined to bend the knee, not even Lyran Lydden, who could barely speak for all his anger.

“Now.” Daenerys was looking down on the nobles, all of which had now lost a family member. “The West needs a new Warden. I present to you: Lucion Lannister.”

They'd found the young man on the advice of the Prince of Dorne and Ser Ryon. From what Grey Worm understood, he'd been the most high-ranking Lannister who had been willing to exchange his familial loyalty for gaining control of Casterly Rock. Had it been up to him, they would've exterminated the entire family, but apparently there were too many of them to find and kill them all.

Lucion would say his vows again in the Red Keep, but also did it now, in view of the lords of the Westerlands. He did it with more flourish than Grey Worm thought was necessary. When Daenerys bid all the bannermen to swear their fealty to the Lannister, too, he could tell that they weren't impressed. From what he'd heard of the events in the North, the situation must've been similar.

After, they put the heads up on poles that could be seen from the Gold Road, while Grey Worm was mentally struggling with the logistical problem of bringing all the hostages back down to King's Landing. They had a few empty carts, now that their provisions had been partially consumed, but would it be enough? He supposed some of them could ride if they guarded them well.

He saw Aegon put up some of the heads himself, and walked up to him. “You are good at taking heads”, Grey Worm told him.

“Aye.” The prince frowned, looking over the Gold Road beneath them. “I've had a lot of practice.”

“Not enough.” He picked up a pole and pushed it into the ground. “In King's Landing, you did not want me to execute the Lannisters.”

With a sigh, Aegon picked up a head by its hair and pushed atop the pole. “I made a lot of mistakes in King's Landing.”

“Like killing our queen?”, Grey Worm asked, wishing the head was Jon Snow's.

“Like killing our queen.” He made to say more, but Daenerys' voice drowned him out, calling for Torgo Nudho in Ghiscari Valyrian. He spared the (redeemed?) traitor one last glance before briskly walking towards her, ready to take orders.

 

 

Yara XIII

Gwyneth lay back in Yara's bed in the captain's cabin, naked as her nameday. They were on their way down to King's Landing; just Yara's ship and her uncle Rodrick's, while the rest of the iron fleet was sailing back home in order to enjoy their loot.

“So what now?”, Gwyn asked. On the bed and leaning against the cabin walls, Yara had the princess' legs in her lap while she was polishing her favourite axe. “What do you mean?”, she asked back. “I think there'll be food soon.”

“I meant”, Gwyneth leaned forward, “what now for the Iron Islands?”

“Ah.” Yara carefully put the axe aside. “That's a good question.”

Her lover arched a brow. “And?”

She sighed, briefly running her hand over Gwyn's braid, then her shoulder. “I actually don't know. Not really, at least. I suppose we should be traders, if we're not allowed to raid.”

With a thud, the princess fell back onto the bed. “You cannot tell me that you have not thought this through.”

“Well.” Yara ran her hand down her legs, arriving at her feet and tickling the soles, which caused Gwyn to withdraw them with a cry. “I haven't really had a choice”, she said, now being glared at accusingly. “My father declared independence _twice_ , and the second time, there wasn't anyone to stop him. It's not like I'd have won a kingsmoot by saying we should bow to the greenlanders again.”

“Good point.” Gwyneth relaxed, but still clutched her legs to her chest. “But I have lived on the Iron Islands for over a year now, and I would consider your rule fairly secure. You must have a vision for how independence in times of peace will actually work.”

Now, the princess was just voicing the doubts that had been tormenting Yara for many a moon. She leaned back against the cabin wall. “You're trying to get at something”, she decided. “Just say it.”

Gwyn briefly looked down towards her feet, then into Yara's eyes. “We have both seen what independence did for the North.”

“We have.” There wasn't really anything else she could say.

“And we both know, you far better than me, that the Iron Islands barely produce anything. There is nothing you could grow, or mine; you have no resources. You are not in a great position for trading, either. That is _why_ your people turned to reaving for thousands of years, after all.”

“That's not what the Drowned Men would tell you, but you've got a point there.” Yara could imagine all too well where the princess was going with this, but still had to ask: “So what would you have me do?”

Gwyneth seemed to consider her words carefully, staring at her own knees. “You know what”, she finally said. “I swear that I am _not_ saying that as the Dornish spy you think me to be, but as your friend and your lover, and as someone who knows the Iron Islands better than most who are not ironborn.” Her eyes met Yara's. “I think you should swear fealty to Daenerys.”

Now it was on her to remain silent for a moment, before deciding to turn to the more difficult part later. “You're _not_ a Dornish spy? Don't lie to me.”

Gwyn sighed. “Obviously that is why I was sent, but you have not actually been keeping any secrets from my father, so there was no spying to be done. In truth, I was mostly sent to get close to you, so I might dissuade you in case you ever decided to act against Dorne.”

With a snort, Yara pointed at their naked bodies. “You did a good job, there.”

Gwyneth waved her hands. “Do not pretend that you were unaware of this. In any case, I hope you know that I truly care for you. That I _love_ you.”

She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. “I know”, Yara said quietly and took Gwyn's hand, then cleared her throat. “I can't just run back to my captains and tell them I'm a lady again. They'd rebel in a heartbeat.”

“You do not have to be a lady”, the princess said. “Daenerys has been calling herself the queen of the _Seven_ Kingdoms this entire time, anyway. I believe that, considering the fact that she has granted you independence and you would be offering fealty out of your own accord, you might be able to gain concessions for the Iron Islands. And if your lords and captains do rebel, Drogon would make quick work of them.”

That much was undoubtedly true. “Having half our islands burned wouldn't be good for my people, either”, Yara remarked, “though that would also happen if we continued our reaping. Are you suggesting that we could gain a special position, like Dorne?”  
Gwyneth squeezed her hand. “I think it possible, at the very least. You could be a princess, like me.”

Yara laughed. “I've been a princess before, when my father was still alive, though no-one called me that. It doesn't really fit.”

“Regardless of that”, Gwyn said, not disagreeing, “it is not just about titles. You could gain concessions on taxes, better conditions for trade, perhaps a regular grant by the Crown considering the difficult circumstances faced by the Iron Islands.”

“Do you think she's that generous? Daenerys tends to just assume that fealty is owed to her. Why would she treat me any differently from the others?”

“Because you will ask very nicely.” The princess looked her straight in the eye. “Not in view of the court, but in a private conversation. You have been her loyal ally this entire time, and you have played a crucial role in her reconquest of Westeros. Remind her of that if she forgets. She does reward those who remain true to her, and if you _offer_ your fealty based on certain conditions, she might accept.”

“Might”, Yara repeated, but she actually wasn't that unconvinced. She'd suspected for a while that this would be the only way forward, though she'd never wanted to admit it to herself before. “Alright, I _will_ give it a try. If this should be some kind of ploy by your father after all”, she added, not entirely serious, “then you can tell him you've succeeded there, too.”

Gwyn gently hit her shoulder. “You know me better than that, my love.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. I couldn't have a good portion of the story be about how northern independence is dumb while pretending that it would work well for the Iron Islands, which is probably the only place in Westeros that would do worse than the North. The ironborn aren't traditionally pirates/vikings because they're just Like That, but because they inhabit a few rocks that you can't grow much on, and because they're on the wrong side of Westeros for trade. Really don't know what the independent Iron Islands are supposed to do if they can't return to the Old Way.
> 
> The princess title is a bit weird in this case since the Dornish were using it even before they became part of the Seven Kingdoms, as per Rhoynar tradition – but it has come to mean something different in Westerosi terms by now, I'd say; signifying Dorne's special position in the realm rather than Rhoynish heritage.


	40. Anders X | Daenerys VII

Anders X

Drogon was the first herald of the queen's return, although the royal party did not make them wait much longer after he'd begun circling over the city. Daenerys entered King's Landing on horseback this time, so as to be able to smile and wave at her subjects, who shouted blessings with great enthusiasm.

Anders smiled to himself from atop a Red Keep balcony. It was astounding what good propaganda could do.

By the time the procession had made it to the castle, Anders had convened the many lords and ladies who'd lately arrived in the capital behind its gates. The Lords Tully and Arryn had reached the city a while ago, as had Baelor Hightower, accompanied by his sister the Lady Dyonne, as well as a new High Septon and a new Grand Maester. The future Lord Paramount of the Reach, Ser Armond Caswell, had never left; Gendry Baratheon and the Lucion Lannister were arriving with the queen. The northerners had already been taken care of in Winterfell, and Queen Yara was due to arrive shortly, together with Gwyneth. All parts of Westeros were accounted for.

The queen was the first through the gate, splendid as ever in black riding leathers, a crown of Valyrian steel secure in her braided hair. Just before she could finish dismounting, Anders shared a look with Naharis, who opened the spacious wooden cage at his side. With an excited shriek, Missandor began flapping towards Daenerys, who picked the dragon up with a delighted smile as soon as her feet touched the ground.

In concert, the entire court knelt. She took a moment to let Missandor crawl over her shoulders, speaking softly in High Valyrian. Anders thought she might be talking about how much the dragon had grown.

“Arise”, she commanded while the rest of her party began streaming into the Red Keep; Prince Aegon at the front, together with the Lords Lannister and Baratheon, as well as Grey Worm. Daenerys walked along the lines of the nobles; surveying them, before she got to the new arrivals from the Reach. “We have met”, she stated to the new Grand Maester. “Agrivane, was it?”

The man bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. The Conclave chose me to serve the realm.”

“Very well.” She moved on to the High Septon. “Your High Holiness”, the queen acknowledged with a nod, then glanced along the line until she found a woman dressed in red. “Sennora”, Daenerys called out. “I have been told you are now the High Priestess of Westeros.” The woman curtsied, and the queen looked back at the High Septon. “I shall need to have a word with the two of you, regarding the future of your faiths in both the capital and the realm at large.”

“Prince Anders”, she then said. “Any word of Queen Yara and your daughter?”

With that, they heard the distant ringing of bells coming from the harbour. Anders smiled. “There is your answer, Your Grace.”

It would be good to see Gwyneth again.

 

 

Daenerys VII

While everyone was setting into the Red Keep, Daenerys decided to spend some time with Missandor. The blue dragon had grown since she'd last been here; Daario must have taken good care of him – or her? No matter; dragons didn't work that way.

Her rooms had also been redecorated in her absence, as had most of the castle, and the renovations begun under the Usurper had continued. Targaryen banners were flying everywhere once more, her new throne had been completed, and her royal chambers now had a distinctly Essosi look to them – fine silk curtains, painted leather fittings, and carved wooden screens.

“Dracarys”, she said to Missandor, who let out a wisp of smoke. “Try again”, she said in Valyrian. “Dracarys.” Taking a staggering step forward on the table, the dragon pulled back its head, and this time, there was some fire in the smoke. Daenerys smiled proudly, remembering how Drogon had done the same thing back in Qarth. “One day, you will be as large as your older brother”, she told Missandor, who looked sceptical.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by an Unsullied. _“Y_ _ā_ _r_ _ā_ _Dāria_ _”_ , he announced, and she told him to let her in.

“I hope I'm not disturbing”, Yara said as she entered the sitting room, assessed the new décor with a glance.

Daenerys pointed at a chair across from hers. “You are always welcome. Would you care for a cup of wine?”

As Yara went to pour wine for both of them herself, Missandor took a step towards her, eyeing her curiously. Flashing a brief smile at the dragon and sitting, she said: “I like what you've done with the place.”

Daenerys took a cup from her. “Why, thank you. Are your chambers to your satisfaction?”

“Oh, they're better than anything we have on the Iron Islands, though that doesn't say much.” She took a sip of wine. “That's what I've come to talk to you about, actually.”

She raised her eyebrows. “The Iron Islands?”

“Aye.” Yara set down her cup and Missandor waddled towards it, examining the wine. “I've been thinking about their future, and I don't think it's looking good, as things stand now.”

She drank from her cup in order to conceal the smile that was threatening to spread across her face. “I have always wondered about your ideas for the future.”

“So have I.” Yara took her cup again, interrupting Missandor's intrigued sniffing. “Truth be told, I don't think independence has a lot to offer for us, at least not if we can't just reap and reave all across the Riverlands like the kings of old.”

This sounded excellent. “You are offering your fealty?”, she asked.

“Under certain conditions.” Missandor seemed to be paying as much attention as Daenerys. “Iron law reigns on the iron islands. We keep the Drowned God and the kingsmoot, and if you call upon us in war again, we can take thralls and salt wives. They're not slaves.” Not entirely, anyway, Daenerys thought, though the difference did not seem that great. “Whoever sits the Seastone Chair will be known as the Prince or Princess of the Iron Islands, and will rank before your Wardens and Lords Paramount. The Crown will send us aid whenever required, as you send to the North, considering our terrible geography. We will have the same tax and trading arrangements as Dorne.”

Daenerys considered this for a moment, running her hand over Missandor's long neck. “So you demand special status in return for the fealty you owe me by birthright?”

Yara smirked. “I'm not demanding, I'm asking.”

Daenerys had to smile at that as well, and Yara continued: “You did grant us independence. Besides, I've been a loyal ally to you ever since we first met, and I'd say that without my fleet and my men, you wouldn't be sitting here yet.”

She wasn't wrong, Daenerys knew. “So you would be a second Dorne?” She had no doubt that Princess Gwyneth had something to do with this. Maybe even Anders.

“That's the idea.” Yara leaned her elbows on the table. “What do you say?”

What indeed? It was true that the Iron Islands had played a crucial part in her campaign; had essentially given her the North as well as sacking Lannisport in order to intimidate the Westerlands into submission, as well as sending ships to carry her Ghiscari troops to Westeros. Such loyalty did deserve a reward, even though it wasn't any more than what both their old oaths to her House and their alliance from back in Meereen had demanded.

She could easily conquer the Iron Islands and force them to accept any terms she liked, of course. Their fleet was strong, but wouldn't hold up to dragonfire. She could fly out on Drogon right now if she so chose.

Then again, that would be a punishment fit for traitors; far from what Yara deserved in exchange for her service. There was hardly any harm in accepting her proposition – should any other lords gain similar ideas, she could simply point out that not a single one of them had contributed nearly as much as the Iron Islands.

“Would you serve me as mistress of ships?”, she finally asked. Missandor had crawled into her lap while she caressed his wings.

“I shouldn't”, Yara replied. “I need to go back to the Iron Islands. My captains will be furious, and I'll have to reestablish my authority. I also need to marry.”

Daenerys laughed. “And who would you marry? Not even Dornish law would let you wed Princess Gwyneth.”

Yara sighed, and drank deep. “The least ugly ironman I can find. I don't only like women, you know. But if you want an ironborn master of ships, my uncle Rodrick Harlaw is here. He's got decades of experience.”

That was just as well. “You will need to kneel, too”, she warned. “In the throne room, with all the others.”

“I'd rather not”, Yara said, but Daenerys shook her head. “Do not try to take it too far.”

“Fine.” She finished her cup. “I'll kneel in front of all the realm, if it means I'll rise as the Princess of the Iron Islands.”

With a smile, Daenerys stretched out her hand. “Then it shall be done.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent far too much time figuring out how exactly one would say “Queen Yara” in Valyrian, arriving at the conclusion that it could be either Yārā Dāria or Yāri Dāria, though that doesn't account for any possible regional variations. The more you know.


	41. Jon VIII

 

“Are you looking forward to this, _prince_?”, the Tyroshi asked. “Seeing your old friends and your cousin in a cell? I have to warn you, they're not in a great state. They've been down there for a long time.”

The way to the black cells involved endless flights of narrow stairs, badly illuminated by the occasional torch. The only thing anyone could see clearly was Daenerys' hair. “Have you been torturing them?”, he asked back.

“No, though I would've loved to. Barely anyone's ever been to see them. I think the Dornish prince went to talk to the fat one once.”

Sam. Out of everyone he knew he'd have to see die, this one would be the hardest.

And yet, it was just. He was guilty; he'd tried to turn him against Daenerys, and he'd deserted the Night's Watch. Of course, he himself had _murdered_ Daenerys, and he had deserted, but those who weren't Targaryens could hardly hope for the same mercy.

They arrived at the third level of the dungeons, where Naharis led them to heavy door, which a gaoler opened for them.

Taking a torch and peering inside, he saw Bran sitting on the floor. He showed no reaction to their arrival, nor to the light touching his face; just stared straight ahead, as if in a distant realm, even though his eyes weren't white.

“Bran”, he said. Nothing happened. Next to him, Daenerys gave a derisive snort. “I can see how he made a terrible king.”

“He was already like that when we took the castle”, Naharis explained. “Just sat there in his chair in that garden, not even looking at us.”

Suddenly, Bran's head moved, and he looked straight at Daenerys. “The trees”, he said. “It was you.”

“Of course.” She looked down at him with a sneer. “Not all of them, but some.”

“I can't die yet”, he replied. “There must be another one. I have to _find_ another one.”

“I would hurry up, then. Tell me”, Daenerys took a step into the cell, “how is it that you could not foresee _this_?”

Bran looked straight past her now, at him. “It wasn't supposed to be this way”, he said. “None of it.”

“What was it supposed to be, then?”, he asked. “Was I just there to kill her so that you could be king?” He'd had that suspicion for a while. That Bran had let all of it happen, just so he would rule.

But why? Nothing he'd heard made it sound like he'd been interested in ruling.

His cousin looked back at the queen now. For the first time since he'd been a boy so many years ago, there was fear on his face. “I don't understand how you could come back. It was not _meant_ to happen. Who could do that?”

“Gods more powerful than yours”, she said, then took him by the arm as they left the cell. He had planned to say farewell to Bran, but he'd finally understood that there was nothing of him left.

As the cell door closed, Naharis was looking at Daenerys with awe; something he could understand very well. He knew that the Tyroshi was the sellsword captain lover she'd had back in Meereen, though he wasn't sure if his animosity to him now stemmed from the fact that he'd marry her, or from the murder. Both was fair enough, he thought.

 

Sam was next. When they opened the door, he kept himself out of sight, not quite ready to face his brother under these circumstances. Naharis gave him an amused smirk.

“Samwell Tarly”, Daenerys said coldly. He couldn't see him, but heard him shift within his cell. “I suppose I should have killed you as soon as we met. Like father, like sons.”

He heard the characteristic sound of Sam's whimpering. “For telling the truth”, he heard in that voice Sam used when he was trying to be brave. “The truth that you have no claim.”

She laughed. “I have always had a claim. Do you deny that I am a Targaryen? I have been told it was very obvious.”

“Yes, I suppose it is the madness that gives it away. When a Targaryen is born, the gods -”

He could almost _hear_ her rolling her eyes. “Do spare me that coin story; I am quite sure that Varys invented it. That is not how anything works, and if you were a real maester, you might even know that.”

There was a pause, then: “So what did you do with Jon? Prince Anders told me you were going to marry him, but that is an obvious lie. You would _never_ let him live; he is too much of a threat.”

With a gleeful grin, Daenerys took a step back outside the cell, looking at him. “Come, nephew. You cannot hide forever.”

He briefly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Sam would see him as a traitor.

Of course, that's precisely who he was, and this was his punishment. It had been too easy to forget that he was being punished, lately.

“ _Jon”_ , his brother exclaimed when he stepped inside. All dressed in black and red and with the circlet on his head, it was clear who he now served. He swallowed and forced the words out of his mouth: “My name is Aegon.”

Sam's mouth was hanging open. “It is true, then?”, he asked, voice high. “You really – you're on _her_ side now? Betraying Bran?”

“I betrayed her first.” He almost wished that Daenerys wasn't here for this, so that Sam would know that he meant was he was saying, but even if she left, she could still be theoretically listening in. “As Bran betrayed her. And Sansa, and Tyrion, and you, and all the others.”

“You -” Sam was too angry to be afraid. “You did the right thing when you killed her, Jon, you saved us all. And now you'll just stand by her side when she burns Bran?”  
He made his face take on the same hard look he'd worn in Winterfell. “I will. I've already stood by her side when she burned Sansa.”

All Sam could do was gape at him until Daenerys led him out of the cell with a quiet laugh. After the door slammed shut, he took another deep breath, and went to his knees.

“Your Grace”, he said imploringly, “please don't burn him on the pyre. The smallfolk don't know him. I know you need to make a great spectacle out of Tyrion and Bran, but Sam's just a maester -”

“He is _not_ a maester”, she interrupted; a point he had to agree with. “Fine, but he's also not known. I beg you, my queen; give him a quicker death. He's helped so much when we were fighting the Night King, don't forget that; he found out about the dragonglass. You could have Drogon do it, or have him beheaded. I'm sure”, he pointed at Naharis, “that he'd be happy to do it -”

Naharis shrugged, watching the scene unfold with a glint in his eyes. Daenerys slowly shook her head. “Oh, Aegon”, she sighed. “What makes you think that Tarly deserves a quick death? I am not here to show mercy.”

“You showed mercy to the lords of the Westerlands”, he said. “You let them choose to be beheaded.” He would know; he was the one who'd taken nineteen heads that day. Longclaw had slid through neck after neck with its usual ease while the blood had pooled around his feet.

“After they renounced their treason”, she replied. Then, she smiled; the kind of smile he'd come to know ever since she'd returned. It didn't ever bode well for her enemies. “Your friend is welcome to do that, of course. If he stands before the people of King's Landing to confess his crimes, renounce the false king, and bend the knee, then he too will be beheaded. However, since it was your idea...”, she ran her fingers through his hair, “what was it that you said? The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

He heard a chuckle come from Naharis while everything in him froze. How could he kill Sam? He was his brother; not by blood but by vow, even if both of them had left the Watch. With Sansa, at least, he hadn't been the one to actually do it.

Still, Sansa's death had been horrid. If he could give Sam a much quicker one, that would be good. Not for him, but for Sam; as he himself no longer deserved good things.

The pain of having to kill his best friend was part of his punishment, he understood. “I'll do it”, he rasped. “Let me talk to him again.”

This time, they closed the door behind them. The cell smelled terrible, he dully thought.

“Are they locking you up, too?”, Sam asked, and he slowly shook his head. “No. Did you hear that, outside?”

“You cannot hear anything through these doors.” His former brother looked up to him. “Is it really true, all of it? You really follow _her_?”

“Aye.” It was difficult to meet his eyes. “She's my queen; she's everyone's rightful queen.”

“You're the rightful king.” He almost wanted to laugh. “I've lost all right to that when I betrayed her. Should've just married her straight away and consolidated our claims.”

“And now you'll marry her anyway.” He nodded. “Sam, I've come to offer you something. A quicker death.”

“What, if I confess my crimes and renounce my treason?” He said it as mockingly as anyone in his position could.

“Exactly.” When Sam shook his head, he continued: “Tyrion and Bran will be burned on a pyre. It takes time; it's extremely painful. I've seen it happen and I would not want to be in there. It starts at your feet and then creeps up; it's not nearly as quick as Drogon.”

“So that is the alternative?”, Sam asked. “Grovel at her feet so I can die like my father and brother?”

“No. You'd be beheaded.”

“Oh.” Sam considered that for a moment. “That's better, I suppose. Is the Queen's Justice any good?”

He closed his eyes. “It'll be me.”

“Oh”, Sam said again, paused. When he opened his eyes, his old friend was staring at the floor. “You have got a lot of practice, at least. And Longclaw.” Another pause. “How can she make you do this?”

“It was her condition for agreeing to my pleas to give you a quick death.”

“I see.” Sam looked up to him again. “I don't want to die, Jon. Who is going to take care of Gilly, and of Little Sam, and of Joanna?”

“Joanna?”, he asked, and Sam gave a sad smile. “My daughter. She turned out to be a girl, but we still wanted to name her after you.”

Another thing to feel guilty about, then. “Where are they now?”

“I cannot tell you that. _She_ ”, Sam looked towards the cell door, “would just have them killed.”

“She wouldn't.” He was certain of that. “She's let everyone else's children live. She'd legitimise Joanna and give her Horn Hill.”

“Do you really believe that?” He nodded. “I know that. You don't have to tell me where they are; they will be found either way. But know that they will come to no harm.” With that, he knocked at the cell door, and it slowly opened, hinges shrieking. “Confess and recant, Sam”, he said. “Longclaw is sharp as ever. It will be swift and painless.”

 

With that, there was one prisoner left.

Tyrion didn't speak when he saw Daenerys, but his eyes widened when he entered the cell. “How?”, he asked, voice coarse from not having spoken in a long time. “What happened?”

“Daario will be happy to fill you in”, the queen replied. Tyrion nodded slowly. “I am sure he will. How will I die?”  
“On a pyre.”

Tyrion swallowed audibly. “Not even Drogon, like Varys?”

Daenerys smiled her sadistic smile. “That would be entirely too quick.” She took a step towards him as Tyrion shrunk away. “But before that, there is something I would like to know. Were you betraying me the entire time, or were you merely incompetent?”

Incredibly, Tyrion actually looked hurt at that accusation, despite everything. “I believed in you”, he said. “I really did. I never wanted to betray you.”

“Until you did”, she replied, and he sighed. “Until I did.”

There was a brief silence. “You really are incompetent, then”, Daenerys decided. “I still would not believe you if you had not failed to serve the Usurper, too. It was far too easy for me to take back the throne.”

“I am a failure”, Tyrion agreed. “And I have a terrible taste in monarchs, clearly.”

Slowly shaking her head, Daenerys took his arm once more, but he wasn't done. He stepped up to Tyrion, yanked him up by his long, tangled hair, and punched his face so hard that he fell to the ground again with a pained shout.

Now he was ready to leave.

 


	42. Cella VI

They'd found a spot on one of the highest steps of the original Dragonpit, which meant that they were still closer to the action than those people standing on the wooden parts that had been built to extend it. Most of King's Landing was attending today, or had at least tried to, although they hadn't been able to fit everyone.

In the middle of the pit, a great pyre had been constructed. There wasn't anyone on it, not yet, but on a dais next to it sat a collection of the highborn. Cella only recognised one of them: Prince Anders of Dorne, who'd come to take the city from the Usurper. Luckily, the seamstress Nellis was with her, and she had much more experience with deciphering their arms and knowing their customs.

“I suppose the maid next to Prince Anders is his daughter”, she told her. “Don't know what she's called, but someone once told me he had two.” That much, Cella could've guessed; they looked similar and were sitting under the same banner. “Then next to her, that must be Yara Greyjoy. The Iron Islands are ruled by the krakens.”

Cella nodded, vague memories coming to mind. “Wasn't her father the one allied with the Mad Queen? I've seen him ride around the city. What's she doing here, then?”

“That was her uncle”, Nellis replied, and a man standing next to Cella chimed in. “They've had a war amongst themselves”, he said. “I work at the docks, we hear all kinds of things. He won first, but then either her brother freed her, or the Dragon Queen burned all his ships, or both. Anyway, she's their queen now.”

“Daenerys is queen!”, Cella protested, and the man raised his hands defensively. “Just tellin' you what I've heard, love.”

“Who's the one next to Prince Anders, then?”, she asked. “I know he's a Baratheon.” Anyone who'd grown up in King's Landing could recognise the stag. “But I thought they were all dead.”

“That's Gendry!” A young woman in front of her had turned around. “Knew him, years ago. Used to be a blacksmith's apprentice, workin' for old Tobho Mott. Turns out he was King Robert's bastard, and the Dragon Queen made him trueborn.”

Cella smiled. “That's _Usurper_ Robert, but I'm sure you're right. Her Grace is full of mercy.”

“Well, not for those ones she's gonna burn today”, the man from the docks said. “Can't say I blame her.” With their combined knowledge, it wasn't hard to figure out who the rest of the lords were. The one with the falcon sigil was an Arryn of the Vale; Nellis said that the old usurper's Hand had had the same arms. The trout was the Tully lord from the Riverlands; the man they'd just met had come down from there to King's Landing during the War of the False Kings. It was obvious to all of them that the lion was a Lannister, though none knew this one's name. They couldn't tell which House the horse-man sigil represented, but by elimination, it had to be from the Reach.

The new High Septon was also there, as was High Priestess Sennora, and a man who had to be the Grand Maester. A lot of Dornish soldiers were around, as were the Unsullied, whose leader the legendary Grey Worm stood behind the seat that would be the queen's. More of the highborn sat on a special section of the steps, but they didn't seem as important.

And then, of course, there was the traitor prince; Aegon who'd once been called Jon Snow. His entire story was highly confusing, mostly because Cella had heard so many conflicting reports. Either way, he was a Targaryen now, and the queen in her infinite mercy permitted him to wear their arms and marry him.

Shouts broke out across the Dragonpit when they heard Drogon's roar above. Down below, the Dornish soldiers and Unsullied stood to attention while the highborn rose from their seats. As the great dragon's wings cast a shadow over all of them, Cella joined in with the others.

Slowly circling over the pit, they greeted their queen with shouts of “All hail!” and “Seven blessings!” and “R'hllor's blessings!”, too. Drogon almost didn't have enough space to land.

Cella had never seen the dragon so close, nor the queen. Like all the others, she stared at the great beast in wonder – the sheer size of it was mind-boggling, as was its terrifying beauty.

Daenerys gracefully stepped off his shoulder, and she, too, was a sight to behold. She wore a flowing gown of red and black that danced prettily in the wind of Drogon's wings, as did her silver hair. Her arms, neck, and head were adorned with a dark metal and stones in the colours of her House. A small, blue dragon was perched on her shoulder, and she had a round object in her hands. She looked out of this world as she glid up to the dais, waving at her people with a stunning smile. No wonder the old people had always told Cella that the Targaryens were above mere men.

“She looks so much like her brother”, Nellis said. “The Prince Rhaegar. But much more splendid.”

The queen stopped at the pyre and placed the object within it. After she took her seat, the court did the same. High Priestess Sennora quickly walked up to her and seemed to touch her mouth, though it was hard to see. When the queen spoke, her voice rung out loud and clear across the Dragonpit.

“My lords and ladies”, she said. “Your High Holiness, High Priestess, Grand Maester. My good people of King's Landing. Today, we mark the beginning of a new era for Westeros. The wars are at an end, and a new time of peace and prosperity shall follow. My House of Targaryen, which has united the realm once before, has returned to take our rightful place.” Cheers rang out. “The time of the many usurpers has passed, and all parts of the realm have been reunited. At the same time, a new faith has entered Westeros. The followers of the Lord of Light have earned my deepest gratitude for supporting my rightful claim, but I will play no favourites. All my people are free to follow whichever gods they choose, be it the Seven or R'hllor, the Drowned God or the old gods of the North.” Cella was certain that this was something she said out of the kindness of her heart, even though the queen undoubtedly prayed to the Lord of Light. “Today, my nephew the Prince Aegon and I shall be wed and anointed, and tomorrow, all lords will swear their fealty in the Red Keep. But before we can usher in the new, we must rid ourselves of the old.”

After that, they heard the sounds of boots as several Unsullied appeared from the stairs leading into the lower parts of the Dragonpit. In between them were three men, all haggard and dirty. The first Cella didn't recognise, though he wore a maester's robes, if without the chain. The second was unmistakeably the Imp, and the third was being carried between two soldiers, clearly unable to walk – the Usurper himself, then.

“He looks so young”, Nellis said over the angry shouts of the crowd, and Cella agreed. “I can't believe that's actually him. He was supposed to be our king? Have we ever had a king we never even got to see?”

“Never”, the man from the docks said, while the girl in front of them nodded along. “All kings I can remember were shit, but at least I knew what they looked like.”

The three of them came to a halt in front of the pyre while the crowd was really working itself up. “Traitors!”, Cella screamed along with the others. “Usurpers! Monsters!”

A few people began to throw stones, though that quickly abated when it became clear that it was difficult to aim at them without hitting the Unsullied, too. Cella let herself be swept up in the rage of the masses – these were the men that had let them suffer and done nothing about it; who'd hid in the Red Keep while the city had been starving; who'd conspired against the rightful queen in concert with the Great Other. These men were evil, and they now had to die.

After a while, Queen Daenerys stood, quieting the crowd. She took steps up towards the men, the small dragon still on her shoulders, while they were pushed to their knees. Or, in the Usurper's case, roughly dropped to the ground. She pointed at the first one, declaring: “This one is Samwell Tarly. He served as Great Maester under the Usurper, even though he was no maester at all. He encouraged Prince Aegon to commit treason against me. For these crimes, he is sentenced to death.”

“Burn him!”, people screamed. “Die, traitor!” Cella tugged at Nellis' sleeve, then whispered in the seamstress' ear: “He was friends with the prince.”

Nellis turned towards her, eyes wide. “How d'you know that?”

It was hard to be heard over all the noise, but in this case, she was glad for it. “I had the master of coin as a customer once. Bronn, the sellsword one. He liked to talk. Said that Tarly and the prince served together at the Wall.”

The queen raised a hand, ending the shouting once more. “However, his role was not as large as the others'. I will grant him a quick death, provided he renounces his false king.”

Sennora hurried forward once more, touched Tarly's mouth as well, even though he tried to flinch away. “Samwell of House Tarly”, the queen said. “Do you confess your treason?”

There was a long silence while all waited for his answer. “I”, he finally said, sounding more like a shriek. They heard him clear his throat. “I do.”

A sigh went through the crowd. It would have been nice to see him burn, Cella thought; let the Lord of Light have His due.

When the queen didn't reply and kept looking down on him, he stammered on. “I was mis- misled, Your Grace. I- I didn't see the justice of you”, a choked sound came forth, “executing my father and brother.”

“Your father and brother”, the queen said, “who rose against both me, their rightful queen, and House Tyrell, their rightful liege lords. Who I had still offered to spare if they bent the knee. Who I had offered the Wall instead of death even then.”

Cella exchanged a look with Nellis. She didn't know who Tarly's father and brother had been, but they sounded like idiots.

“Yes, Your Grace”, he said feebly. “You were in – in the right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done any of it. I shouldn't have told Jon -”

The small dragon hissed so loudly it rung through all the Dragonpit, releasing smoke and flame. Tarly crawled backwards to escape the heat, hands raised up in an attempt to protect himself.

“I'm sorry”, he stammered again. “I mean Prince Aegon. I shouldn't have said all that to him. I shouldn't have supported the”, something between a sigh and a sob, “the usurper Brandon Stark. I am a traitor, and all I can ask for is – is Your Grace's mercy.”

“Pathetic”, the man from the docks said. Next to Tarly, the Imp's head was hanging low, his face impossible to see beneath long tangled hair and a dirty beard. The Usurper was staring ahead without any emotion.

“You are in luck, Tarly”, Queen Daenerys said, standing over his crouched form in all her beauty. “Prince Aegon has begged me to grant you a beheading in consideration of your services to the realm during the Long Night. As a true man of the North, he will do it himself.”

Cella gasped along with Nellis. The Unsullied brought forth an executioner's block while the prince stepped forward. He was splendid, too, in all the Targaryen finery; colours that went exceedingly well with his black hair and pale skin. The crowd grew exited when Tarly was dragged towards the block and the prince drew his sword.

“He's looking good”, the girl in front of them said with a smirk. “Can see why Her Grace would let that one live. Princely as they come.”

“You're sure they were friends?”, Nellis asked. The prince said something to Tarly, though they couldn't hear him. “If that Bronn wasn't lying”, she replied.

“Can't be easy for him now”, the seamstress said, but Cella shrugged. “Serves him right.”

With Tarly's voice still amplified, they could hear him clearly as he whimpered: “Please don't, Jon”. From where she was standing, Cella could discern no emotion on the prince's face when he raised his sword and struck Tarly's head from his body.

The crowd cheered as the head rolled on the ground and the rest of the body fell off the block. The sand was quickly soaking up blood. She noticed that Prince Aegon's shoulders had sagged and he was staring down at the dead man, his bloody sword dripping onto the floor as it hung limply from his hand. Then, he seemed to catch himself when an Unsullied offered him a cloth to wipe his sword, which he took before swiftly returning to his seat.

“That was a good stroke”, the man told them. “Quick, clean. Bet that sword's Valyrian steel.”

Cella didn't care what kind of sword it was, but she was glad that the first traitor was dead. Queen Daenerys had looked on as Aegon had taken the false maester's life, and now talked to them again, stroking the blue dragon's snout. “My good people”, she said and Cella felt pride swell up in her – they were _her_ people, were they not? “There are two more traitors left for us to punish; the greatest of all. Brandon of House Stark called himself your king, but did nothing to serve you; his subjects. He did not protect you, he did not nourish you, and he did not care for you. All of this, he did in defiance of who he knew to be his rightful queen. He is the last of the usurpers.” Next to her, Tarly's head was collected while his body was being dragged away. “Tyrion of House Lannister served him as Hand – as he had once served me, and his bastard nephew before me. He came to me while I ruled Meereen, claiming to share my goal to create a better world.”

“Where's Meereen?”, the girl in front of them asked, though none of them knew.

“I had struck of the chains of the slaves in the Bay of Dragons, far to the east. Tyrion the Imp tried to placate the slavers there, for he never truly wanted me to succeed.”

“ _Slavers”_ , Nellis spat. “Slavery's the most vile thing there is.”

Cella nodded frantically. The priests had been telling them all about how the queen had freed those in the east.

“When I returned to Westeros”, Daenerys continued, “the Imp gave me bad counsel. Each time I followed his advice, I lost. By now, it has become clear that he did all that to harm me, for he was working with his sister the Mad Queen the entire time.”

“Of fucking course”, the man from the docks said. “Never trust a Lannister, I could've told her that. Especially that Cersei.”

No-one argued with that. “For their treasons and their usurping of my throne, I sentence Brandon Stark and Tyrion Lannister to die”, Queen Daenerys said. “For them, there can be no mercy. They will burn.”

“Yes!”, Cella cheered, and others soon joined in. Someone just _had_ to burn for all this.

Both the Imp and the Usurper were unceremoniously picked up by the Unsullied and dragged upon the great pyre. There was a ladder leading up to the top, and a stake that both were tied to.

Anticipation built in the crowd as the Unsullied descended from the pyre and removed the ladder. The great dragon raised its head, and Her Grace said a word in a foreign tongue. When Drogon set the pyre aflame, Cella began to pray.

“Lord of Light, cleanse their sins and take away the taint of the Great Other”, she murmured, along with thousands of other voices. “See that we have rejected their evil ways and given them to your flames. R'hllor, shine your light upon us and our queen...”

The dragonflame had lit most of the pyre at once, and it didn't take long for the fire to reach the traitors. Soon, they heard the Imp scream, though not the Usurper. Smoke filled the air and ash rained down upon them once more while the smell of burning wood and flesh spread through the Dragonpit. It brought up memories of the last time the queen had used fire to cleanse them, but this time, it felt good. Cella took a deep breath and quieted her own praying to hear Sennora chant from the dais.

She noticed that Nellis was praying, too, though to the Seven, as the High Septon had positioned his crystal crown to shine its colours upon Queen Daenerys, who had by now returned to her seat. While most of the commoners were praying, she saw many of the lords and ladies cover their noses and avert their eyes, though not the high lords who were sitting with Her Grace. The prince was staring straight at the pyre, which now burned brightly, the traitors hidden by its high flames. The roaring sound of the fire and crackling wood had drowned out the Imp's screams.

And then, they heard another sound, or perhaps they heard it less than they felt it. Cella couldn't quite tell what it was, but the entire Dragonpit quieted at once. Both Drogon and the small blue dragon's heads turned towards the pyre in an instant, and she saw a shift in posture come from both the queen and the prince. Watching the highborn, she thought that the Dornish princess and the Greyjoy woman smiled at each other.

“What was _that_?”, Nellis asked, breathless, but Cella didn't know. _Something_ had happened.

They didn't find out for the long time it took the flames to die down. A feeling of nervous expectation filled the crowd while people returned to speaking with each other, though in hushed voices. She didn't know how for how long they waited, but by the end of it, her feet hurt, her stomach growled, and she could really use a chamberpot.

Then, finally, the queen walked up to the pyre, the dragon on her shoulder shrieking with excitement while Drogon, too, brought his head close. The large dragon dug into the pyre with his wings, shoving away at the burnt wood, then holding up a part of it.

All gasped as the queen actually went _inside_ the pyre, which was still smouldering, though at least it seemed like Drogon would keep her from being crushed. They heard the blue dragon chirp – or was it just that one? It sounded as if there were two.

When Queen Daenerys emerged from under Drogon's wing in the still-glowing pyre, she was covered in soot, though clearly unhurt. Her beautiful gown, her skin, and her shining silver hair were full of ash, but her smile was brighter than anything Cella had ever seen. The blue dragon flapped through the air around her, while a smaller, red-and-gold one was in the queen's arms.

As she raised him up in the air, Cella joined in with the cheering crowd, almost loud enough to drown out the two young dragons' screams – until Drogon chimed in with a majestic roar.

There is was, once more: the undeniable proof that the queen was blessed by the Lord of Light. He had given her another dragon when she'd burned the traitors; when she'd done His work. Cella felt tears in her eyes.

“My good people”, the queen's voice rang out over all the noise; the cheering crowd, the dragons large and small alike. “Today, we all have won. A victory that belongs to you as much as it belongs to me, for it marks a new age where all shall prosper. In the tongue of my ancestors of Valyria, the word for victory is Ērinnon.” Her arm raised high, the red dragon sat on her hand and looked out over the crowd. “And Ērinnon is this one's name; in honour of this day.”

The highborn were standing and cheering, too, while the Dornish soldiers roared and the Unsullied's spears hit the ground in a steady rhythm. A few rows in front of them, someone fainted.

When the queen stepped back on top of Drogon, both small dragons on her shoulders, the soldiers began to usher out the crowd. Through grey clouds, they could see the faint sun high in the sky.

Even though so much had already happened, the day had only just begun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'll be spending all of Sunday travelling, the update will come a few hours later than usual.


	43. Jon IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit later than usual, as announced. I'm completely braindead now so I'll respond to comments from last chapter tomorrow.

The crowd became thicker the closer they got to Visenya's Hill, but the Unsullied hat been prepared, and had cleared the path well ahead of the royal procession. He was riding behind Daenerys, careful to keep his horse away from the three young Westerlands hostages who were walking between them, holding up the enormous train of her scarlet gown to save it from being dragged through the dirt.

The people cheered them as they rode past, just as they'd cheered when she'd brought Ērinnon forth from the pyre. And before that, when the same pyre had burned Bran and Tyrion. And before _that_ , when he'd taken his best friend's head.

After everything he'd done for her and every time he'd stood by her side, this had still been the worst of all. He'd been there when she'd burned Sansa, and he'd killed the lords of the Westerlands on her orders, and Maester Wolkan, too. And yet, he knew that the last look into Sam's face would haunt him even more than Sansa's screams. That the sight of his headless body would be there every time he closed his eyes.

And yet, he'd done it, had he not? Making him live with his pain had been precisely the point of it all. Having him wed the queen and be crowned her consort on the same day he'd killed his brother.

His thoughts were interrupted when they'd finished ascending the hill. Here, the Great Sept of Baelor had once stood, now reduced to a ruin by Cersei Lannister. On one side of its remains, a sort of outdoor sept had been created by positioning statues of the Seven in a large circle. On the other side, a small ditchfire burned. Drogon was already there, sat high atop the tallest remaining column, while the High Septon and the High Priestess stood in their respective places. Most of the highborn had been assembled at the back, and those who had travelled with them from the Red Keep were now beginning to file in. The smallfolk stood all around; where-ever they could find space and get a good view.

As his feet touched the floor, Daenerys was being helped off her horse by Prince Anders. She plucked her youngest dragons from her shoulders, handing them to Grey Worm and Yara Greyjoy respectively. Princess Gwyneth wordlessly passed him the light, folded bride cloak before he entered the circle representing the Seven.

He gave a curt nod to the High Septon and stood with him between the statues to the Mother and the Father. This faith had never been his, not any more than that of the red god, but he knew it well enough; probably better than Daenerys herself. As the High Septon began intoning a familiar hymn, he could've joined in with the many others who did, but he was truly in no mood for song.

After a thankfully brief reading from the Seven-Pointed Star, it was time for Daenerys to enter the circle, the Westerlands children hurrying to adjust her train before they stepped back. By the gods, he should've married her after their first night on the boat, he thought. It would have been the right thing to do, especially now that he knew that she'd been with child – _the child he'd killed_ – and it would have spared all of them so much pain. Even more, who wouldn't want to marry her?

The hymn swelled as she approached him, beautiful as ever. She wore no maiden cloak and had declared the whole cloaking gesture as superfluous, considering that they were of the same House. Still, all had advised her to at least give a nod to it, so here they were. There was no-one to give her away, either; enough of a break with tradition as it was.

The moment she reached him, the singing stopped. “You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection”, the High Septon said, which made him want to laugh. She didn't need much protecting.

He unfolded the cloak. It was made of the lightest silk, the Targaryen sigil painted on in the way of the Dornish. With a swing she had made him practice beforehand, he made it spread out over her gown and fastened the ruby-studded clasps on her shoulders. He met Daenerys' eyes, saw her smile at him with a certain mirth, as if she found all this just as ridiculous as he did. And to think they'd have two more weddings today.

Turning back to the High Septon, they joined hands. “Let it be known”, he proclaimed as he tied a black velvet band around them, “that Daenerys of the House Targaryen and Aegon of the House Targaryen are one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever.”

It felt strange to recite the vows and invoke the Seven, even though he'd always held a certain sympathy for the Stranger. If he listened very closely, he could almost think that Daenerys' voice had a certain sarcastic edge to it.

Kissing her felt strange, too. Usually they only did so in bed, and it was much more furious and frantic. Daenerys still took the opportunity to lightly bite his lip.

The crowd cheered once more, and with that, they were wed in the eyes of the Seven.

 

The red god's ceremony was quite different. They stood before the ditchfire, the High Priestess on the other side. Daenerys had handed her cloak and the – apparently removable – train of her gown to the Princess Gwyneth, as they would surely get in the way.

He didn't care to listen to Sennora's lengthy prayers, though he noticed that many of the smallfolk gave answer to everything she said. None of the highborn did, however – some watched the rite with mild curiosity, others with suspicion.

“Aegon”, the High Priestess finally interrupted his thoughts. “will you share your fire with Daenerys, and warm her when the night is dark and full of terrors?”

“I do”, he said, even though she had enough fire in her for the two of them.

When the same question was repeated to her, the queen gave a dangerous smile. “I do. Until he burns inside.”

“Then come to me and be as one”, the High Priestess said. Daenerys took his hand, and they leapt over the fire. The flames licked up at them, but felt warm rather than burning, no doubt by some sort of magic.

“Two went over the flames”, Sennora said when they'd hit the ground. “One emerges. What fire joins, none may put asunder.”

Seeing the reflection of the flames in Daenerys' violet eyes, he suddenly thought a wedding by fire very appropriate for their House. Perhaps she wasn't entirely wrong about the Lord of Light and the gods of Valyria.

 

If he'd thought their weddings tedious, the coronations were much worse. The High Septon went on for what felt like an eternity; praying, and singing, and then praying some more. After that, there were seven oils to anoint them with, each of which required a prayer, a short sermon, and a hymn to the respective face of god. By the end of it, the seven drops of oil were running down his face. It wasn't only an unpleasant sensation, but also an overwhelming mixture of smells.

Finally, and with the full pomp required by her endless list of titles, the High Septon placed the crown atop Daenerys' brow. It was one he hadn't seen before; a large thing of platinum and Valyrian steel shaped like a dragon – its wings at the sides, the head in the centre, and its tail curling all around. Opals were set along the base, shining in all colours, while its eyes were made of onyx.

He didn't get a good look at his own crown when he was proclaimed king consort, though it felt heavier than the circlet she'd had him wear before. When they rose this time, he was quite sure that the cheers and the collective “Long may they reign” were an expression of relief that the lengthy ceremony was over.

“Perhaps we should have scheduled the executions in the middle of this”, Daenerys said to him while they made their way back to the ditchfire, her regally waving all around. “It certainly would have spiced up the proceedings.”

He didn't have to answer since just then, Sennora plucked the crowns from their heads and tossed them into the fire. The flames roared up, turning a deep blood red while the High Priestess spoke. “The Lord of Light cares for all; monarchs and nobles and commoners alike. He fills our hearts with fire and lights our way.” He followed Daenerys' example in turning to face the smallfolk, many of which were hanging onto Sennora's every word. Only now did he realise just how much power the High Priestess had in this moment; that she just needed to say wrong words to delegitimise Daenerys' reign in the eyes of half of King's Landing.

Then again, it was easy to imagine just how the queen would react.

“A ruler who reigns by the grace of R'hllor does His work on this plane. It must be a ruler who protects and defends the people, who frees those who are chained, who strikes down the enemies of the realm with fire and blood.”

Apparently Sennora had no intention of ruining Daenerys' day. “This ruler stands before you now”, she declared. “The Lord of Light has guided her, has lit His flame inside her, has let her vanquish the darkness on her dragon who is fire made flesh.” She walked behind them to the fire, though he couldn't see what she was doing. “Daenerys Targaryen”, she proclaimed then, “is the One Who Was Promised.” From behind the queen, Sennora placed the crown back on her head – while it was burning. The deep red flames were licking along the base and seemed to make the dragon come alive, but did not spread, nor did they harm her. Once more, the people broke out in deafening cheers. “She is the queen of the Seven Kingdoms; of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. She will guide and protect you as an extension of R'hollor's will. Aegon, her consort”, his crown returned to his head, too, the flames bringing a pleasant warmth, “shall tend to her fire and fan the flames of our Lord.”

“Wave”, Daenerys told him as she smiled brightly at the crowd, and he complied, though awkwardly. Behind them, Drogon roared by some unspoken command, joined by Missandor and Ērinnon's much more feeble noises. Even though he couldn't see him, the flame the dragon shot in the sky lit up everything around them.

It was beginning to grow dark, he noticed. “One more wedding to go”, Daenerys said. “I am only glad that the old gods ceremony is short. Will you carry me to the feast afterwards, my lord husband?”

He suppressed a snort at the title. “Only out of the godswood, my queen. You can walk well enough on your own.”

“Let us get to it, then”, she said, clearly having had enough of the smiling and waving. “It will take long enough to return to the Red Keep, and I am growing rather tired of all these rites.”

 

After the ceaseless noise and spectacle of the day, the quiet of the godswood was more than welcome. This last ceremony was only attended by the few odd southern nobles whose Houses followed the old gods, though its main purpose was a message to the North. Their children would be the first Targaryens with northern blood, and this wedding an underlining of their claim to all parts and peoples of the realm. It did not need to be large, she'd said, not after the rest of the day – what was important was that enough people would see it so that word could get out.

After they'd said the words in front of the great oak that served as the Red Keep's heart tree, they knelt to pray. In his eyes, this was their real wedding, and the events of the day left him with much to say to the gods.

He prayed for forgiveness for Sansa and Bran, and Tyrion and Sam as well, and Davos, who'd died in this castle. He prayed for peace for the realm, and for Daenerys, and asked the gods to give her the wisdom to rule justly and to soothe her burning rage. He prayed for the health of little Eddard Stark up in Winterfell, so that he may grow to be as good and honourable as his namesake. He prayed for the free folk up beyond the Wall; for Tormund and all the others, and for Ghost's spirit, too. He prayed for his marriage, that it may be blessed with children who would live lives more joyful than their parents'.

There was no reason for the gods to listen to a man as accursed as he was, but he still had to try.

When he was done, he noticed that Daenerys was already standing, looking at him with impatience in her eyes. Doubtlessly, she had not prayed at all. Without another word, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her back inside the castle, where they had to attend a feast he was in no mood for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only description of a R'hllorist wedding we have comes from ADWD, but I'm pretty sure that it's one that's been adapted to northern and Westerosi custom, with the “who comes forth” part and the cloaking. Also, Melisandre only uses first names, which I kept since it seemed to fit with this faith.


	44. Daenerys VIII

“All hail”, Prince Anders intoned, “Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms”, the doors of the throne room shut behind them, “Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm”, walking past the kneeling lords and ladies, she had to be careful not to smile while Missandor and Ērinnon crawled around on her shoulders, “Queen of Meereen, Khal of Khals,”, she could hear Aegon's steps behind her, “Lady of Dragonstone, the One Who Was Promised”, she hoped that her gown fanned out beautifully on the short stairs leading up to her throne, “the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains”, she turned and gathered her skirts, “the Mother of Dragons”. She sat.

“And Aegon of the House Targaryen, King Consort of the Seven Kingdoms”, Anders added, as her husband took his place behind her and the small dragons fluttered up to the backrest.

Many of the lords and ladies looked tired, which was no surprise after last night's feast, where food and wine had been plentiful – curtesy of Dorne and the Reach. No-one could miss this, however.

The throne room was entirely repaired at this point. They hadn't done much in terms of decoration; Daenerys was considering holding a contest for all artists of her Seven Kingdoms. Nevertheless, the centre piece – the throne itself – was done.

It had taken artisans and mages from all over Essos, particularly Qohor, but they had managed to salvage the old dragon skulls from the lower levels of the Red Keep and shape the bones into a magnificent seat. The shining black dragonbone was strengthened by Valyrian steel reforged from some of her treasures, razor-sharp teeth had been filed down and magically formed into decorative patterns, rubies provided occasional accents. Where the Iron Throne had once stood, the Dragon Throne now marked the restoration of House Targaryen.

She took another glance at the nobles before her, all kneeling with their heads bowed. “Arise”, she then commanded. They did, hundreds of skirts rustling.

“Her Grace will now accept oaths of fealty from the Wardens and Lords Paramount”, Aegon announced from behind her. Dorne, the North, and the Stormlands had been taken care of beforehand, as had the Westerlands, but she had commanded all (safe for the absent Rickard Ryswell) to repeat their vows in front of this much larger audience.

“Edmure of House Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident”, Anders said when the man stepped forward. She'd permitted him to leave his very pregnant wife at home, but had asked him to bring his young son Edmyn, considering that he'd one day make the same oath to either her or her heir.

After he'd said the words and she'd accepted, she bid him to rise. “My lord”, she said, “I hope your lady wife is well. I hear she has brought a new Tully into this world while you were on the road.”

“Indeed, Your Grace”, he said with a small bow, presumably happy to announce this in front of the whole court. “A girl, Minisa. Mother and child are well.”

“Wonderful news. You must be anxious to return to Riverrun then, so you may meet your daughter, and your son his sister.”

Tully stepped back with another bow, and on it went. Lucion Lannister swore for the Westerlands, and Armond Caswell for the Reach, using the opportunity to announce his betrothal to Dyonne Hightower – with the wedding taking place in six moons' time, just to make sure she didn't carry Bronn's child. Robin Arryn proclaimed the fealty of the Vale and Gendry Baratheon that of the Stormlands.

Then, it was time for Prince Anders, who repeated the vow he'd made to her when they first met. After she bid him to rise, Daenerys said: “My good prince, you have been a most loyal subject. You have counselled me well, and have represented me without fault when I commanded you to speak in my name.”

He bowed. “I live to serve you, Your Grace.”

“As such”, she said, “I believe that it is overdue that I named you the Hand of the Queen. Will you accept this office, Prince Anders, even though it means you will not return to rule Dorne?”

She could see his satisfied smile as he knelt once more. “You honour me greatly, my queen. My daughter the Princess Ynys shall be the regent of Dorne in my stead, and I am proud to accept.”

Grey Worm handed her the pin as she descended from her throne. While she fastened it to Anders' lapel, the cheers of her court didn't sound entirely genuine, but that didn't truly matter.

“Now, the queen -”, Aegon began when she'd returned to the throne, and Yara Greyjoy interrupted, just as planned.

“Your Graces”, she said, stepping forward, her dark leather cloak dragging behind her, driftwood crown on her head. “Forgive me for the disruption, but I would proclaim the Iron Islands' fealty as well.”

The lords' and ladies' surprise was palpable, while Daenerys faked her own. “Queen Yara”, she said, “I have granted you independence in exchange for your assistance in the war. You have upheld your end of the bargain, and I will uphold mine.”

The other woman went to her knees. “I do not doubt your intentions, Your Grace, but mine have changed. The Iron Islands have seen that you as a just and wise queen, and would be glad to submit to your rule.” Daenerys doubted that this counted for most of the captains, but that wouldn't be her problem. “Will you accept my oath?”, Yara asked.

She smiled. “Of course.”

“I, Yara of House Greyjoy, First of My Name, Queen of the Iron Islands, and Lady Reaper of Pyke”, she said, and took off her crown to lay it at Daenerys' feet, “do hereby renounce my queenship and pledge the fealty of the Iron Islands to you, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Your Name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Daenerys wasn't surprised that Yara had no patience for all her titles. “The Iron Islands shall serve House Targaryen and the Dragon Throne from this day until the end of all days, whenever and where-ever called upon, be it at sea or on the green lands. I swear it by the salt and the rock, by our God Who Dwells Beneath the Waves, and by your gods old and new.”

The throne room was silent. Some were still puzzling it all together, others looked at Yara with loathing; mostly the hostages from the Westerlands. Meaningful looks were exchanged as many doubtlessly understood that the Iron Islands' independence had never been viable to begin with.

“An oath freely given”, Daenerys said, “and gladly accepted. The Iron Islands have played an important part in restoring House Targaryen to its rightful place, and have now sworn their fealty of their own volition. For that, they deserve a great reward.” The court looked at her expectantly, maybe even suspiciously. Favouring Dorne and the Iron Islands of all places; the outsiders of Westeros, would not have been the most wise course of action if she didn't have overwhelming military might. “From this day onward, the Iron Islands will be part of the Seven Kingdoms once more, but shall be free to retain their own customs. Yara of House Greyjoy, Lady Reaper of Pyke, I name you Princess of the Iron Islands and Wardeness of the Sunset Sea. These titles shall pass to whoever sits the Seastone Chair after you, as chosen by kingsmoot. Arise.”

The murmuring going through the crowd after that proclamation was only silenced when Missandor gave out a shriek – which still wasn't very impressive, but served to remind the nobles of just who was sitting before them. What followed were the endless oaths coming from all the other lords who hadn't been there to swear their fealty right after she'd returned to King's Landing. It took far longer than she (or anyone else) would have liked, but it was necessary.

By the time they were finally done, Daenerys was quite happy to move on to the last few points. “I now have a Hand”, she said with a nod to Prince Anders, “but my small council is far from complete. Many posts will be filled after due consideration, while some others can be decided on now.”

She made a great show of praising the ironborns' well-known seafaring expertise and asking Princess Yara for a recommendation regarding a master of ships, before naming Rodrick Harlaw to the position. Next, she went on for some time recounting Daario's deeds and his effectiveness in keeping order in Meereen in her absence – after all, he probably needed some introduction. Grey Worm did not, but she still praised his loyalty and valour.

With the two on their knees before them, she had Aegon hand her one of the Valyrian swords. “A knight”, Daenerys said, rising from her throne, “is often a follower of the Seven, though not always. A knight can receive his honours from another, or from his king or queen. A knight _must_ be a fierce fighter, must be brave, must be just. These men have all these qualities.” She touched the sword to Grey Worm's right shoulder. “ _Torgo Nudho_. In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave...”

This was highly unorthodox, of course. No queen had ever made a knight, though no woman save Cersei had ever ruled the Seven Kingdoms in her own right, either. Even though knights who didn't follow the Seven weren't unheard of, foreigners certainly were. What was more, neither Daario nor Grey Worm cared the slightest bit for the title.

Having the High Septon stand by and look on approvingly certainly helped, however, and it was a necessary thing to do. Both of the men would be more well-respected within Westeros this way, and more secure in the positions they would hold. It also meant that she could give Daario a small keep in the Crownlands, which would be useful if he ever wanted to marry. Torgo Nudho would have no need of this.

“Arise, Ser Grey Worm, and Ser Daario of House Naharis. As a further reward for your services, you receive these swords of Valyrian steel.”

She handed the first to the Unsullied and another one to Daario, seeing both of them inspect the weapons with some admiration. She'd given them the shortest ones she had, as to match their usual styles. They might not care for the titles, but these were men who appreciated sharp steel.

“Ser Grey”, Daenerys then said, and noted with some amusement that his eye twitched at the name. He'd have to get used to it. “You have made it your mission in life to protect me, and that you shall. I hereby name you the Lord Commander of my Queensguard.”

He'd really got much worse at hiding his emotions, she thought when he bowed deeply, gratitude clear on his face. It would be strange to see him wearing white. He'd swear his vow later, though he didn't need to be told that he should take no wife and father no children. “Ser Daario”, she continued, “you have ample experience in keeping the peace in a city. I name you my master of laws, so you may command the City Watch.” Both choices had been quite obvious to her.

Returning to her throne, Daenerys was sure that the nobles were broadly unsatisfied with all appointments, but she already had Anders working on finding suitable candidates for the remaining positions – they needed to be both competent and from well-respected mainland Westerosi Houses. The biggest challenge would be finding a decent and trustworthy master of whisperers now that Ser Ryon was set on returning to Dorne, but she had no doubt that this, too, would be eventually resolved.

This was the true beginning of her reign, and she had no intention of having it end like the Usurper's.

 


	45. Anders XI | Cella VII

Anders XI

“My proposals for the remaining positions, Your Grace.” He slid the parchment across the table, and the queen studied it for a moment. “Are they all present in the Red Keep?”

“Most”, he replied. They were in their first small council meeting, and so far, it only consisted of Anders as Hand, Lord Harlaw as master of ships, Ser Daario as master of laws, Ser Grey as the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, and Grand Maester Agrivane. The queen wanted the three remaining positions filled by those held in higher esteem by the nobility, which seemed like a good idea. They also needed to appoint the rest of her Queensguard, as it presently only consisted of the Lord Commander himself.

“I shall need to speak to all of them”, she said. “If they are not yet here, tell them to come as soon as possible.” She handed the list back to him, and he made a note of it. “ _Torgo Nudho_ , you will be with me when we examine the candidates for the Queensguard. They shall fight you, and you can tell me what you think.”

“Yes, my queen.” The Lord Commander had donned the white cloak of the Queensguard on top of his Unsullied armour, something Anders was sure he would still need to get accustomed to.

“Now.” Daenerys looked around the table. “Even though we are not yet complete, there are matters on which we must act immediately. Most urgently, I distinctly remember that there was wildfire buried under King's Landing when I first took the city. Is this still the case?”

The councillors looked at each other, clueless. “It is possible, Your Grace”, Anders then admitted.

“Well, we will need to find out. Daario, you will take men and search every tunnel, every single crevice under the city until you have found all of it. Take the Unsullied, in fact; I trust them more with something so delicate.” Naharis nodded. He still dressed like an Essosi sellsword, and Anders decided that he would need to give him some advice on that. As a landed knight, he'd at the very least need a sigil. “Is there a way of rendering wildfire harmless, Grand Maester?”, she asked.

“Well, I am no alchemist”, the old man replied, “but I will consult my sources. There might be no other way than to set it off in a controlled environment, with plenty of sand on hand.”

“Perhaps we should do it in small quantities, then”, Daenerys mused. “Somewhere safely away from the city. It will depend on how much is found, of course.” She, too, made notes on a parchment set before her. “Next, there is the matter of the Wall and the Night's Watch. Is there still a purpose for their existence?”

That was a good question. “At the very least”, Lord Harlaw said, “the Watch is a good place to send rebellious lords who do not require execution.”

“True.” She thoughtfully stared at her quill. “Although it appears nonsensical to maintain the Watch and rebuild the Wall if there is no other use. I shall need to consult with Lord Rickard, see what the northerners think.” Again, both her and Anders took notes.

“Further”, the queen continued, “dragon eggs. Grand Maester, have you any knowledge regarding the rumours that some might be hidden in certain castles?”

Agrivane hummed. “Rumours, Your Grace, yes. Winterfell and Dragonstone in particular. It is difficult to say if this is true, however.”

“We shall send word to the remaining Ghiscari on Dragonstone, then”, Daenerys replied. “And if there might be eggs hidden in Winterfell, I should perhaps go myself.” She tapped her quill against the ink pot. “Grand Maester, I shall need reports on the weather in the North. Once conditions are agreeable, I will take Drogon and a few Unsullied with me to pay Lord Rickard a visit.” She crossed this item off the list. “Lord Harlaw, there are about twelve thousand Ghiscari who wish to return to the Bay of Dragons. Do we have enough ships to take them all back, or shall I command Meereen to send more?”

The master of ships pondered this for a moment. Anders had heard much of him over the decades – he was a seasoned captain, and one of the few ironborn not known for bloodlust and hot-headedness. “Perhaps, if they do not need to be taken all at once. You must always consider that a sizeable amount of ships will not survive the whole journey, especially as they will need to make it twice in order to return. The iron fleet will have some to spare, however.”

“Very well.” Another item crossed off the list. “This, now, would be much easier if we had a master of whisperers, though perhaps Ser Ryon can help as long as he is still in the Red Keep.” Daenerys shot Anders a look, and he voiced his agreement. “King Aegon has informed me that Samwell Tarly had a natural daughter named Joanna. The mother was his wildling lover, who also has an older boy, although he is not Tarly's.”

Agrivane huffed. “Tarly kept a wildling lover? The audacity.”

“Be that as it may”, the queen said impatiently, “the girl exists, and though a bastard, she has the best claim on Horn Hill of anyone in this realm. It appears that her mother and half-brother went on the run with her, and it is my wish to find them in order to legitimise the girl. The fate of the other two will depend on how they behave.” She paused. “I have met them briefly at Winterfell, though Aegon knows the mother far better. He will be able to give a description, and perhaps some information about where she might have gone.”

“Ser Ryon will do his best”, Anders promised. “As will I. They will be found.”

“I would hope so.” She laid down her quill. “While we are on the matter of succession, it is important to settle something. I am well aware that precedent has excluded women from sitting the Iron Throne – but the Iron Throne is no more, and the Dragon Throne is mine.”

“Are you proposing to change the law of succession, Your Grace?”, Agrivane asked.

Daenerys gave a thin smile. “I am declaring a new law, Grand Maester. As in Dorne, succession shall be determined by the order of birth, irrespective of sex. Should my first child be a daughter, she will be my heir, and no son born after her will change that.”

Anders was quite sure that a different crowd would have had a more pronounced reaction to that. He didn't see any problem with his, of course, while Lord Harlaw had supported his niece's claim on the Iron Islands. Ser Grey and Ser Daario like did not care about Westerosi traditions.

Only Agrivane had concerns. “How far-reaching do you intend this to be, my queen?”, he asked. “The Great Houses -”

“Can do as they like”, she interrupted. “I will not dictate how the Wardens and Lords Paramount handle their own matters in this regard. This change applies to House Targaryen and all the titles we hold. If anyone else wishes to follow our example, they have our full support, of course.”

When nobody disagreed, the queen made another note. “Good. Prince Anders, I shall need you to draw up a royal decree on this matter in your best calligraphy, or find someone who can do it for you. This will be an important document.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He'd get Gwyneth to do it; she was good at this sort of thing.

“Is there anything else?”, Daenerys asked. “I am aware that there are many more matters to tend to, but they will require a complete small council, and I would like to get to filling this one. Then, we will be able to turn to the reforms I have in mind.”

Anders looked up. “Just one thing, my queen.” He looked at Agrivane, who stood to bring a large tome from a table behind them.

“This was found in the Grand Maester's chambers, and I believe that it was formerly in Samwell Tarly's possession”, he said as he set it before the queen. “A quite false and preposterous account of the events following the death of the first usurper, written by that fool Ebrose.”

Daenerys opened the book, and looked at the title page in confusion. “A Song of Ice and Fire?”, she asked. “What does that have to do with anything? It would have been a more fitting title for the story of the Long Night, short as that turned out to be.”

Anders exchanged a look with Rodrick Harlaw, who seemed equally baffled, while neither Grey Worm nor Naharis appeared terribly interested.

“Just how false is it?”, she queen asked. Agrivane, having returned to his seat, gave a regretful sigh. “Very, Your Grace. It glorifies many of the usurpers, and makes no mention of some of the vilest traitors, such as Tyrion Lannister. Worst of all, it paints you as a cruel foreign invader, while neglecting to recount your many great deeds.”

With a raised brow, Daenerys slowly flicked through the pages. “How many copies of this are there?”

“Very few, I would wager”, the Grand Maester replied. “I would expect there to be only this one in the Red Keep, and maybe two in the Citadel, though it is possible that some lord has ordered a copy, too.”

“Indeed.” She shut the book with a loud thud. “The Citadel aims to preserve _knowledge_ , does it not? True knowledge, not lies.”

“Of course.” Agrivane nodded with some self-importance, and had clearly caught the queen's meaning. “These erroneous ramblings have no place in any serious library. I will see to it that this account of falsehoods is removed, and if Your Grace permits, I shall make sure that a true telling is written in its stead.”

“Please do.” The queen stood, and all followed. “I will get to filling this small council then.” She nodded at them all and bid her goodbyes. Ser Grey was right behind her, his new Valyrian short-sword at his side.

Anders looked over his notes. Filling empty positions, wildfire, the Night's Watch and the Wall, dragon eggs, the queen's journey north, returning the Ghiscari, Tarly's daughter, a new succession law, and the writing of a more favourable history.

They already had their work cut out for them.

 

 

Cella VII

“Today”, High Priestess Sennora announced, “we begin to build the greatest monument to R'hllor on this side of the Narrow Sea.”

Cella chimed in with the cheers. They were at the Dragonpit once more, though in smaller numbers than during the executions. “Where the dragons once lived, these beings of fire made flesh that our Lord brought into the world”, Sennora continued, “where the traitors found justice in our God's flames at the hands of the One Who Was Promised – here, the Great Temple of King's Landing shall stand. From here, He shall shine His light on all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Our Lord”, Cella said along with the others, “light our way.”

A great fire burned behind Sennora. “Across the city, on Visenya's Hill”, she said, “the Faith of the Seven has begun to build their new Great Sept.”

Shouts rang out, but the High Priestess quieted them with a gesture. “The Seven are false gods, and their followers will be condemned to eternal darkness if they do not see R'hllor's wisdom. Still, we are all our Lord's children. Speak to your families, your friends, your neighbours, and show them the light – but do no harm to the followers of the Seven, and do no damage to their sept. You heard the words of our Queen Who Was Promised, spoken in this very place. She asks that you show kindness and understanding to those of the false faiths, for no-one can find R'hllor against their will. Our queen is merciful, by the grace of the Lord of Light.” Sennora raised her arms and turned to the fire. “R'hllor who gave us light, and the dawn, and the fire that burns within us all, we thank you.”

“Our Lord”, they all said, “we thank you for the sun, we thank you for the stars, we thank you for the dragon's flame.”

“R'hllor, you have led us from the darkness. Light our path and show us the way in a new age of fire.” Behind Sennora, men clad in red began to carry in stones, which would soon form the foundations of the temple.

“For the night is dark and full of terrors”, Cella and the others replied.

 

After, she walked back to Nellis' shop. On the way, she passed by the brothel she'd once worked in, waving up to the balcony, where she saw one of the girls she'd known there. Many of them had left by now, having found work elsewhere. One of them was even getting married to a former customer, and though Cella wasn't sure if that was a great idea, she couldn't blame her.

Inside, she found Nellis draping layers of thin cotton around a wooden dressmaker's dummy. “There you are”, the seamstress said. “How was the Dragonpit?”

“Wonderful.” Cella leaned against the table, watching the other woman pin the fabric in place. “The new temple will be the greatest building in King's Landing, after the Red Keep.”

Nellis looked at her with a smirk. “Let's see if it'll be anywhere near as grand as the new Great Sept. They're starting work today.”

“Same.” The seamstress unfastened the pins she'd just put in, and tried a different angle to place them. “The High Priestess told us you lot started work as well”, Cella continued, “but that we shouldn't do anything against it, even though you follow false gods.”

“Is that so.” Nellis stepped back, regarded the dummy, and reached for another layer of fabric to drape over the ones already in place. “High Septon said that, too. I'd say it's coming from the queen.”

Of course it was. “Whatever she says must be right”, Cella decided, then nodded at the new project. “What're you working on?”

Nellis sighed, hesitantly holding the cotton here and there. “Everyone's coming in asking for dresses that look like the queen's”, she said. “Y'know. Light and flowing. But they can't afford silk, and it's not like it's warm enough for that, anyway. Good thing hers have lots of layers. I just need to come up with a way to make them that's cheap enough, and that women can actually wear when they're going about their daily lives.”

Cella hummed. There was no way the average King's Landing woman could look like Queen Daenerys all the time, with the richly died or painted silks, and the long trains on her elaborate gowns. Most of Nellis' customers were shopkeepers, some the wives of middling merchants, so it wasn't like she was catering to the poorest of the poor – but not to ladies of the court, either. “You can keep the shape”, she said. “Make some fabric like a belt 'round the waist, and just a little bit of a train that doesn't get in the way.”

“Yeah, I got that much, thanks.” Nellis stepped back and ran a hand through her hair. “I'll need something thicker, though. This fine cotton's nice, but it's too expensive for most, and not that warm. Fewer layers, and maybe wool, and linen when it's warmer.” She shot Cella a look. “But don't worry about that, now. You've still got the lacing for that butcher's breeches to work on.”

With a smile, Cella returned to the task she'd abandoned earlier; sowing around the holes for the laces so the fabric wouldn't fray. It was tricky because the stitches needed to be so tight and there was barely any space to work with, but she didn't mind.

When the Usurper reigned, she'd almost starved, and then been forced to become a whore. Now, she'd found the Lord of Light, the true queen had returned, and she was doing honest work.

Maybe one day, she'd become a real seamstress in her own right. Nellis' husband and children were all dead, and perhaps she'd eventually be able to take over the shop, or save and borrow some money to open her own. The further her whoring days went into the past, the more likely it'd be that she could marry at some point, too – she did have enough of men for a while, but a family might be nice. He'd be a follower of R'hllor, of course, also because one of her own would be more likely to overlook what she'd been in the past.

For now, these were just dreams, she thought as she set stitch after stitch. But they weren't impossible, and her future looked brighter now than it had for as long as she'd lived.

 


	46. Aegon X | Yara XV

Aegon X

It had been another long day of ceremony, and he couldn't wait for it all to be done. They had spent hours in the Red Keep's sept accepting the vows of the new Queensguard – one knight each from the Vale, Westerlands, Reach, Riverlands, Crownlands, and Stormlands, all tested by Grey Worm, Naharis, and himself.

Daenerys flung herself onto an armchair in her solar with a dramatic sigh, crown almost falling off her head. “Only one more day of this”, she said. “Pass me that fruit, will you?”  
He handed her a bowl of apples and oranges before he sat down himself. “It won't be the sept again, I hope.”

“Just the throne room.” She'd announce the new members of the small council on the morrow – Lord Vance as master of war, Lord Redwyne as master of coin, and a mistress of whisperers.

“Do you really trust the Velaryon woman?”, he asked, half suspecting that Daenerys had only chosen her because of their shared Valyrian heritage.

“Trust is the wrong word”, the queen said, peeling an orange. “But Lady Vaela has followed the red god ever since she was a little girl and Stannis Baratheon brought the faith into the Crownlands, so she considers me the One Who Was Promised. There is also our shared family history, of course.” She broke off a segment of the fruit. “Targaryen blood flows in her veins, and Velaryon blood in ours.”

“She is very young”, he replied, picking up an apple.

“So are the both of us”, Daenerys said. “She is very accomplished at her task, however. Ser Ryon is claims she has had spies in the Red Keep for a while, even when she was still on Driftmark. When we met, I had just spoken to the Grand Maester, and she knew what we had been saying. I didn't know if I should give her the position or take her ears for spying on her queen.”

Good thing she'd decided on the former, he thought, swallowing a bite of apple. “While we are speaking of positions”, Daenerys said, “you should take a few squires and pages.”

“I'm not a knight”, he pointed out. He'd had to go through far too much southron nonsense already, with all the long ceremonies of the Seven, and the knightly rituals.

“You are the king.” She looked at him over her orange. “And that was not a suggestion.”

He inclined his head, really not looking forward to being swarmed by green lordlings all the time. “I do have some far better news, however”, she continued. “As I said, I spoke to the Grand Maester earlier -”

A knock on the door interrupted them, quickly followed by one of her new handmaids delivering a raven scroll. When the girl had left, Daenerys was looking at him with a bright smile. “From Dragonstone”, she said. “They believe they have found eggs.”

His mouth dropped open for a heartbeat. “How many?”

“Four.” She made to pass him the message, then took it back when he saw that it was written in Valyrian glyphs. “They will search on; perhaps there are more. If we are lucky, we will find some in Winterfell, too.”

“How do you mean to get to them?”, he asked. “The lower levels of the crypts are inaccessible, and the hot springs themselves completely sealed off.” He'd known of the stories that some Targaryen dragon had laid eggs there, of course, but no-one had ever really believed them when he'd been growing up.

“Remember how much of it is still destroyed”, Daenerys pointed out. “And that we have Unsullied. They will have no problem climbing through the narrowest of passages, even if there might be boiling water on the other side.” She was probably right, he thought. “Either way”, she continued, “that is not even the best news of the day.”

She rose and stood before him, then laid a hand on her belly. “I spoke to the Grand Maester because I believe I am with child.”

The apple core dropped into his lap, and Aegon had to pick it up and impatiently put it on the table. “Are you sure?”, he asked, mouth dry.

“Quite. It is not the first time, you know.” Their eyes met, and he saw the swirling emotions in hers. Of course, it was the third time she was pregnant, he knew that. The first child by her Dothraki horselord had been cursed by a witch, and the second, by _him_ , had been killed – by him. Very carefully, he placed his fingertips on her belly. “How long?” There wasn't anything else he could say, because there was far too much to be said.

“Difficult to say. It does not show yet.” She looked down on herself, and he remembered something. “You can't fly to Winterfell like that.”

“Like what?” Her eyebrows came close to her hairline. “I am not exactly heavy yet. Flying with you and the Unsullied on Drogon is safer than anything else, and we will spend a night at Riverrun. Perhaps Lady Tully will want to share some advice.”

The idea of the two of them drinking tea and discussing childcare came to his mind, and even though he was sure she could play the part of a courtly lady, it was an absurd thought.

He also knew that she could not be argued with. “We'll have a child”, he just said, with wonder, the fact only slowly hitting him.

“Yes.” She walked away, towards a window. “A new Targaryen; the future king or queen. We cannot announce it yet, of course.”

“Of course.” He watched her, trying to imagine her much bigger, as difficult as it was. How would such a tiny body be able to bear a child?

It wouldn't be the most incredible thing she'd done, he supposed, but he was stunned all the same. He'd never thought he'd have a child, and even though he'd understood that this was exactly what she'd wanted from him, he still hadn't given much thought to what it would actually be like.

Of course, the prince or princess would be raised by half the castle. They'd have lessons as soon as they were old enough to speak and walk; would learn their letters and their numbers, be taught statecraft and strategy, would be fluent in High Valyrian as well as the Common Tongue.

He wondered how old they'd be when Daenerys would first take them on Drogon, and which dragon they'd have. He also wondered how much time he'd be permitted to spend with his child, outside of official functions. If it was a boy, he had to be allowed to train him, at least.

“Rhaenys”, the queen then announced, turning away from the window. “For my niece and your sister. Or Jaehaerys, for two good kings.”

Aegon bowed his head. “The decision is yours, my queen.”

 

 

Yara XV

The journey from King's Landing to Sunspear had been too short. “You could stay a few days”, Gwyn told her as they stood on deck on Yara's ship, men running up and down the plank to stock up on provisions. “Remain here until I leave for Yronwood, even. It's a lovely place, and you could meet my sister.”

Down at the docks, they could see a small Yronwood contingent waiting to greet Gwyn. Yara gave a deep sigh that was too shaky for her liking. “You know I can't”, she said. “If I don't get back to the Iron Islands as quickly as possible they'll do something stupid.” She didn't look forward to explaining why she'd bent the knee.

“I know.” Gwyn turned to her, sadness clear on her face. “We _could_ just sail away, though. Pretend we are on some mission to Meereen for Daenerys. That would give us time.”

Yara smiled sadly. “It would. Well, you need to see it this way – the sooner I've got the Iron Islands back under control, the sooner I can come visit.”

“Yes.” Her lover took her hand, squeezing it tight. “You must. Yronwood will be awful without you, and I will have to talk to all these men who will want to marry me.”

“So will I.” Yara took the other hand, too. “We should come to each others' weddings, threaten the husbands a bit and make them nervous.”

“ _Please_ do.” There were tears in Gwyn's eyes. “Gods, if my father had not become Prince of Dorne, I would not have to rule anything. The Iron Islands are a _miserable_ place, but I loved being there with you.”

Yara almost chocked up, and had to turn away her face. “Don't get sentimental, now”, she said. Then, she pulled Gwyn into a tight embrace, pressing them against each other as hard as she could, as if that was any way to make up for the loneliness of the many moons to come.

“Don't do that”, Gwyn said, even though she was holding her just as tightly. “You will make me cry, and I cannot be seen _crying._ ”

Easier said than done. When they reluctantly let go, they stared at each other until both had to look away. “Go”, Yara said. “No use in drawing it out.”

Gwyn turned away, suspiciously wiping at her face. “There will be raven for you when you get to Pyke”, she promised. “I expect an immediate response.”

“You'll have it.” She watched the princess descend the plank, head held high, walking away from her with step after terrible step.

Yara felt tears in her eyes. She should either go below deck so that nobody would see her like this, or command her men, but she couldn't take her gaze away from Gwyn. Every heartbeat she could still see her was valuable.

By the Drowned God, this was _ridiculous_. She'd been through so much worse than this.

Just a few moons, she told herself. As soon as things had calmed down at home, she'd make up an excuse to go to Dorne. Gwyn would be able to visit her, too, and there'd be many occasions throughout the realm that they'd be invited to, as two princesses in high standing with the Dragon Throne.

Still. Until then, her nights would be lonely in a cold bed. Already, she thought about how she'd want to discuss every detail of her journey with Gwyn, but she wouldn't be there to hear it. No matter how many ravens they sent, they would be slow, and there'd be a million things to tell her that she'd never come to hear.

She saw her princess mount a horse at the docks, turning a last time to look at her, waving briefly.

With a knot in her throat, Yara waved back, and watched her love ride away along the harbour.

Maybe they should make a detour for the Stepstones, fight some pirates or something. That seemed like the only thing that could cheer her up now – but even fighting wouldn't be the same; not without Gwyn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long-distance relationships are the _worst_.
> 
> I'll be without wifi until at least Thursday. I'll probably still upload a chapter on Tuesday, but I can't promise anything.


	47. Rickard V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally have a reliable internet connection again, so here we are - getting very close to the end.

The queen's arrival had been as spectacular as always, though with Drogon, that really couldn't be helped. She'd come with Prince Aegon and a few Unsullied, including one who was now also apparently a knight and the Lord Commander of her Queensguard.

“You will be relieved to hear that some of my Ghiscari are leaving, my lord”, she said now, as they sat in his – formerly Sansa's – solar.

“So I have heard, Your Grace.” The red priest Nabho had been his main liaison to the troops, who mostly did not speak the Common Tongue. Apparently, they had been given the choice of returning to Essos or remaining in the realm.

“And I have heard”, Daenerys said, her intimidating stare fixed on him, “that you are about to wed once more. Remind me who the lucky bride is, again?”

With so few of the old northern Houses left, it hadn't been easy. Many of their castles had been given to minor families raised into lordship by either Sansa or, later, him – but he wasn't about to marry the daughter of some upjumped steward. “Alarra Hornwood”, he replied, and addressed King Aegon. “Your Grace might remember her vaguely, though she must have been a child the last time you met.”

“Forgive me”, the king replied, still sounding so strangely northern for someone dressed in Targaryen colours, “but was she the one with the stutter or the one with the crooked teeth?”

Rickard held back a snort. The king wasn't wrong. “The teeth, although she has thankfully outgrown that.” His new betrothed had none of Sansa's regal beauty, but was comely enough. A good bit smaller than him, with thick, brown hair, large green eyes, and freckles he found endearing.

Most importantly, she was much less scary than his first wife had been.

“You have both our congratulations, then”, the queen said. “When is the wedding?”

“Soon.” In fact, this was a good opportunity. The Hornwoods and a few other families were already here, including his own, and he'd have no problem pushing the date forward. “Your Graces would do me the greatest honour if you would remain our guests at Winterfell until then. We could accelerate the preparations so you may attend the festivities.”

“A lovely idea”, Daenerys replied. “We shall stay, then. There is no saying just how long it will take my Unsullied to search the crypts, in either case.”

He bowed his head. “Your Graces are always welcome.” Especially with all the food and supplies the southern kingdoms were suddenly able to provide them with after all – clearly, the problem had been more a lack of willingness than one of resources.

“Now, we are not only here to speak of dragon eggs and weddings”, the queen said, “but also of the Wall and the Night's Watch. Of course, the Watch has long served as a useful political tool, but does it still have a practical use?”

Rickard sighed, sipping on a cup of wine. “Many of the lords are calling for the Wall to be rebuilt”, he replied. “Sansa had planned to do that, too, but she did not get very far. It depends on whether the wildlings will turn back to their ways of raiding.”

“Some of them will”, Aegon said, quite decisively. He knew them better than anyone else, Rickard supposed. “But most won't. The free folk aren't all just thieves and murders, though they've turned to theft in the past because they didn't have anything else.”

“My lord husband”, the queen said, “believes that it would be best to leave the gap in the Wall caused by the Night King, and use it as an opportunity for trade. Apparently there are resources beyond the Wall. Game and ore and such.”

“Whatever Your Graces command”, Rickard replied, quickly warming to the idea. If actual trade could develop around Eastwatch, which had the added benefit of being by the sea, this could be a benefit to the North.

Although – this was all in the Gift, and thus technically belonged to the Watch, which belonged to the realm at large. Still, it might do some good.

“The Night's Watch”, Queen Daenerys continued, “could stay in place, then. The Wall is still the only land border our realm has, and thus needs to be guarded. As soon as there is legal trade, there will be smuggling, and should some sort of settlement develop around Eastwatch, it will require a guard.”

“It sounds like a solution, my queen”, he said. “The lords will be sceptical, of course.”

“When are they not?” She shrugged. “Not to worry, my lord, I will announce it.” She nodded to herself, satisfied. “How is little Lord Eddard?”

“Oh, fine, thank you.” His son was doing what most babes did: sleep and eat and shit and scream. “He will, of course, be present at the wedding, though I can only pray that he does not disrupt the ceremony.”

“Even if he does, it will be shorter than ours”, Daenerys remarked, and he thought back on what he'd heard had happened in King's Landing. “Your Graces had three ceremonies?”

“Aye.” The king consort looked sullen. “Two too many.”

Rickard could only imagine the pomp of the proceedings, and was happy that he'd just have a good, northern wedding. And a normal one, this time around.

 

Over the next few days, the queen's Unsullied were searching the crypts of Winterfell, aided by King Aegon – who, out of everyone present in the castle, probably knew it best. The many sackings it had endured meant that at this point, Aegon was the only one alive who'd spent multiple years there.

At the same time, Rickard was preparing for his wedding, and hosting the lords and ladies arriving for the event. The past weeks had seen only gentle snowfalls, luckily enough. The nobles generally weren't thrilled when they discovered the royal presence, and he witnessed a fair few uncomfortable interactions – in that Daenerys was as cool and quietly frightening as ever, while the lords tried to not make their hatred too obvious, considering that Drogon usually wasn't far and the Unsullied Lord Commander always behind her. Things were even worse during meals or on the practice grounds, where Aegon was often present. A few younger men challenged him to spar, hoping to at least beat the famous traitor in a mock fight, but all lost. Rickard, too, tried his luck and ended up in the dirt.

He was glad to have the Targaryens there, however. After them, he was possibly the most despised person in the North. The alliance with the Dragon Throne was the only thing keeping him alive – he was well aware of that. With some of the Ghiscari soldiers set to leave, it was a good thing that he'd had them around for what might be the last large gathering at Winterfell for a while. Everyone who mattered in the North should leave this with the image of him being friendly with the queen, and her dragon behind them.

Two days before the wedding, just as Rickard was about to greet the last of his Ryswell cousins (and the horses they'd thankfully brought from the Rills), he noticed that something was happening by the entrance to the crypts. Coming closer, he found the queen and king consort speaking to one of the Unsullied. He was soaked from head to toe, which immediately made Rickard cringe, considering the cold. There was also a fair amount of dirt on him, but the royal couple seemed happy enough. He even saw the queen smile – a genuine smile expressing joy, that was. The last and only time he'd seen her like this had been after she'd burned Robert Flint and hatched the blue dragon.

“You've come at the right time, my lord”, she said cheerfully when he'd reached them. Just then, he saw the Lord Commander emerge from the crypts, his once white cloak dripping with what appeared to be muddy water. In his hands, he held a dragon egg, as did two of the Unsullied behind him.

They were beautiful things, truly. He'd only seen one before when Daenerys had put it in Flint's pyre, and hadn't had time to look at it properly. They all looked like jewels more than eggs, their swirling colours unlike anything he'd ever seen. One was equally covered in swirls of pure white and scarlet red, the next was the colour of copper with flecks of a shimmering sky blue, and the last was silver with whirls in the violet of Daenerys' eyes.

“Lord Rickard, we will need to bother you for a large saddle bag”, the queen said, which wasn't a problem at all. “I take it you agree that even though these eggs were found in Winterfell, they are the property of House Targaryen.”

As if he could argue against that. “Naturally, Your Grace.”

 

He liked his second wedding much better than the first.

A large chunk of the northern nobility was present. Lady Alarra was given away by her brother; their father being dead, and Rickard cloaked her in the black and bronze of House Ryswell. The feast, where him and his new wife sat at the place of high honour flanked by the queen and king consort, was far more lavish than the last. When he bedded her, she was shy in the giggly way of a maid, but not afraid.

His situation was somewhat strange, of course. He would be living at Winterfell with his lady wife and their future children as Eddard's regent, but once his son came of age, it would be his prerogative to decide what to do with him and his half-siblings. Rickard assumed that raising his future Ryswell children alongside Eddard, with Alarra acting as a mother to him, too, would lead his oldest to give them all seats of their own once he was of an age to make such decisions. At the very least, he was planning to remain at Winterfell until Eddard was married, even if this took place after he turned six-and-ten.

The greatest challenge would lie in raising him to not be resentful of the queen who executed his mother and took his kingship from him, and the father who'd helped her. He would need to maintain a tight grip on Eddard and make sure that none of the other lords would be able to influence him.

He had his son brought forth when it was time to say their farewells to the royal couple. “Your Graces”, Rickard said, “I hope to see you again soon. You are both always welcome at Winterfell, of course, and it might do my son well to see his cousin once in a while as he grows.” He nodded towards Aegon.

“I'll be around”, the king consort replied, and the queen added: “My lord husband will play an important part in liaising with the free folk and restructuring the Watch. And you, my lord, will be expected at future royal occasions in King's Landing, even though the journey is long.”

If only they all had dragons to ride around on, he thought when the Targaryens and Unsullied climbed atop the massive beast and took off into the skies.

Good thing he still had that red priest. Should he need them here again, they could be called upon quickly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hornwoods are extinct in the books, but at least according to the GoT wiki, they still existed in the show.   
> Also: GRRM's descriptions of dragons and their eggs are actually so flamboyant, it's amazing. If it was in a fic, it'd be really over-the-top.


	48. Daenerys IX

It had taken a good two moons, but the combined forces of her scouts and her mistress of whisperers had finally found Gilly and her children, living as peasants in Maidenpool while the mother was trying to make enough money to book passage north.

Satisfied with that development, Daenerys signed the decree legitimising Joanna Tarly and giving her Horn Hill with all its lands and incomes. Her aunt; Samwell's sister Talla, was wed to a Fossoway – who would be none too happy about losing the keep, but was in no position to argue.

The girl Joanna was only three, and Anders would be able to find her a castellan who'd do the actual ruling for the next few years and raise her to be loyal to her queen. Considering that Gilly herself was reportedly not exactly on Daenerys' side, she'd be exiled back beyond the Wall, and would be given the choice of taking her son along or having him enter some lord's (though not his sister's, nor aunt's) service.

“You show great mercy”, Aegon said when she told him of her decision that afternoon, undoubtedly having expected that she'd execute Gilly.

“Separating a mother from her child is no mercy”, she replied. “But she is no threat to us, so there is no need for her to die.”

They were standing in one of the most heavily guarded rooms in the Red Keep. Part of the royal apartments, it was also the hottest of them all. It contained seven braziers, one dragon egg in each.

Daenerys had no idea how you hatched a dragon without burning someone alive, though she thought that the Targaryens of old had simply laid the eggs in their children's cribs. Of course, she already had two young dragons, so there would be no need for that, for now. She was taking great care to spend much time with Missandor on her by now swelling belly, hoping that this would form a bond.

Aegon had forfeited all rights to a dragon when he'd killed her and their unborn child, though now that she'd made him responsible for the northern border, she near wished he had one, for convenience's sake. He'd just have to travel by ship, instead.

“I was examined by the Grand Maester today”, she said, walking along the braziers and taking in the sight of each egg. “He says all seems well. Four to five moons, and the heir will be born.”

“I can almost feel Prince Anders' impatience”, Aegon replied, watching her walk among the braziers. “I'm sure he's praying for a girl, so it is more likely that a second daughter will come soon.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “He need not worry. We will have five children, two boys and three girls. I do not know in which order, but his grandson shall have his bride.”

Ever since she'd first learned she was with child, she'd had the same dream over and over again. Five princes and princesses of her blood, at various ages – taking their first steps in these very chambers, handling wooden swords not much later, laughing as they ran through the gardens, playing on the beach on Dragonstone. Attending court with crowns on their heads, growing into the famed Targaryen beauty.

“How are you always so certain of this?” He stood by the door, clearly waiting for her to finish her daily ritual of inspecting the eggs.

“Destiny”, she said with a shrug, before they both left the room for her cooler solar. “I do hope for at least one pair of twins, however. I cannot be pregnant _all_ the time.”

“It suits you well enough.” On the table, she saw a number of parchments, all brought in during the short time she'd spent with the eggs. “Robin Arryn is getting married”, she announced after reading the first one, “and would be most honoured if we were to attend the feast.” They'd also have to go to Gendry Baratheon's wedding soon; he was marrying a Dondarrion girl. And then there'd be Lord Caswell of Highgarden and Dyonne Hightower, too.

Aegon sighed. “There are too many bloody weddings. Who's the poor girl?”

“A Royce”, she said. “Which either means he is getting them to accept that old Lord Royce was killed justly because he fought for the Usurper, or that they are plotting rebellion in the Vale.” Not that the thought scared her too much.

“Robin Arryn didn't seem like someone who'd be willing to fight against Drogon”, Aegon replied.

“I will still have Lady Vaena keep an eye on him”, she said. The other messages covered everything from figures on King's Landing's recovery to a message from Yara Greyjoy, informing her that she'd had to deal with a minor rebellion caused by her bending the knee, but that the lord in question was now “dwelling in the Drowned God's watery halls”.

The very last parchment was a quick note from Anders, reminding her that High Priestess Sennora had requested an urgent audience, and would be in the small council chamber an hour before the evening meal.

That was very soon. “Go see to Missandor and Ērinnon”, she told Aegon, “and remember we are dining with Lord and Lady Vance tonight.”

 

After the High Priestess had finished the formalities of greeting the One Who Was Promised, she got to the point. “My brothers and sisters in Asshai have sent word, Your Grace. A ship bearing Stark sails has docked at the harbour. They have obtained a few hairs from the one they believe to be Arya Stark, and cast a spell on her so they will be able to follow her whereabouts even in disguise.”

Now, that was some news. “Very good”, she said. “I want every priest of R'hllor to keep track of her, and frequent reports of her movements.” No doubt, she would sooner or later hear what had taken place in Westeros.

If need be, she could send someone to tell her that her that it would unwise to ever return home.

 

That night, just as she rose from her bath, she felt it for the first time.

Straight away, she knew what it was, as she'd felt the same with Rhaego. Her child _moved_.

Her sudden smile startled her handmaidens, and when she told them, their excitement was great. Most of them were of course low-level spies for other nobles, though Lady Vaena had made sure that they'd only pass on the information she wanted them to share. The fact that her pregnancy was going well so far didn't need to be kept a secret.

They immediately had many pieces of (often conflicting) advice, but she sent them all away, just after telling them that she'd want the Grand Maester to come in the morning, and Aegon right now.

She wouldn't tell him, however, not yet. This child was _hers_ , even though he'd obviously contributed. If he'd have wanted to fully participate in everything regarding their children, he shouldn't have killed the first.

Still, she did want him in her bed for the night; perhaps that would help to ease the tension she felt all over her body.

Pressing down on her belly and feeling the future king or queen kick against her hand, Daenerys was overcome with emotion. Not too long ago, she'd been dead and defeated – betrayed by almost everyone she knew, murdered on the steps of her throne, having won the war but still lost the kingdom, not to speak of two dragons, her two closest advisors, and the child she'd been carrying.

Now, _finally_ , she had all she'd ever wanted. The Seven Kingdoms were hers and hers alone. Her king consort would never be a threat to her power – not after she'd taken that hollow husk of a man, then turned it into someone so devoted to her that he'd killed his best friend on her command, and watched his cousins burn by her side. She had three dragons once more, though two of them were still very young, and seven eggs as well. Five new Targaryens would come into this world, that she was sure of.

She'd taken it all back mostly by force, and now she'd need to build a strong foundation for the future of a realm at peace. Part of this was the new history the Grand Maester was writing, with much of her own input. In this account, her father had not truly been mad but slandered, and defeated through vile treachery. The many usurpers had been a succession of monsters, one worse than the next – this part hadn't needed too much embellishment. Her own heroic journey and great deeds in Essos were mostly factual, too, though the chapters about the Long Night would place much emphasis on her contribution, and the fact that it had been two Targaryens who had saved all of mankind. King's Landing had been burned by the Mad Queen Cersei, Aegon had been terribly misled, and her triumphant return had saved Westeros.

Once the original version was finished, they'd hire a small army of scribes to have it copied and distributed in all corners of the realm.

When Aegon entered her rooms, she laughed at his reaction when he saw her standing there naked. “I am too deep in thought, dear nephew”, she said as she walked towards the bedchamber. “Come and help me clear my head.”

 


	49. Jaehaerys

_18 years later_

Even over the distance, he could hear Rhaenys' bright laugh as they took to the skies over King's Landing. Missandor's large body felt as strong as ever under him, though it was Ērinnon's that shone in the morning sun as his sister – and, since quite recently, wife – took her dragon on a steep ascent.

Below them, the others rose into the air. Visenya, Rhaenys' twin sister who was only younger by a few minutes, rode Vēzendio with his copper scales and pale blue horns. Below, he could see their younger brother Daemon take flight on the red and orange Perzys, and then Naerys on Embar, blue and green like the sea he was named after. Missandor was the largest of the dragons, though barely any bigger than Ērinnon, but all of his younger siblings had been able to ride them for a few years at this point (not that their mother had allowed Naerys to do so until about a year ago).

Of course, they were all dwarfed once the queen took off on Drogon, but that was a given.

King's Landing was always a beautiful sight when the sun shone upon its roofs, but it was best enjoyed from dragonback. From up here, Jaehaerys could see the Red Keep in all its glory, and the Great Sept and Great Temple on the smaller hills below. Their people and their houses looked so tiny from above, yet he could pinpoint many places in this city he knew so well – the Street of Flour, where the bakers were always so eager to give him and his siblings all the free pastries they could heap on them, before Ser Daario or Ser Grey practically forced them to take payment. The Street of Steel, where Rhaenys and Naerys loved to admire all the fantastical armour, even though Ser Grey and their father were always utterly unimpressed, and found their rare points of agreement in telling them that it needed to be practical above all else. River Row was usually the point where both Visenya and Daemon would be begging to be let out to the harbour by themselves so they could speak to all the sailors, which would inevitably end in half the Queensguard having to accompany them. Then there was the area around the Street of the Sisters where the Guildhall of the Alchemists had stood before their mother had moved them outside the gates, now the centre of King's Landing's ever-growing Essosi communities. This was Jaehaerys' favourite part of the city, where he could practice the different varieties of bastard Valyrian, taste foods he knew of from his mother's stories, and hear the whispers of Qohorik mages and shadowbinders from Asshai.

Drogon's unmistakable roar told him that it was time to stop dallying, and he saw that the others had already turned southeast. The flight to Sunspear would take a while, but would give them great views on this clear summer day, and he was looking forward to being in Dorne again.

Still, the journey was laced with sadness. When they returned to King's Landing, Visenya wouldn't be with them; would remain in Dorne as Daron Yronwood's wife. Jaehaerys liked Daron well enough (even though Daemon couldn't stand him), but he still didn't like the idea of him getting his hands on his sister. The Red Keep would be feel emptier without her, and of course Rhaenys had been crying about being separated from her twin for days – when no one but him could see, naturally. The only good thing was that Visenya would be able to get on Vēzendio to come see them whenever she wanted.

 

Once they got to the Sea of Dorne, he flew Missandor closer to Ērinnon. “Two weeks!”, he shouted at Rhaenys, who answered with a wide smile so similar to their mother's.

In a fortnight, they'd get to journey east; something he'd wanted to do his whole life. They had been to some of the Free Cities before – their mother liked to take it upon herself to conduct diplomacy; sending ships ahead in advance and then making the journey on Drogon. When he'd been fifteen, she had permitted him and the twins to join her on a voyage to Braavos, then Pentos. Two years later, all five of them had accompanied her to Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys.

This time, it would just be him and his wife (as well as the many guards and retainers they'd sent ahead). They would pay a brief visit to the Archon of Tyrosh to relay the queen's greetings, then spend a few days with the magisters of Lys. But after that, it would be on to Volantis, the fledgeling theocracy of the Lord of Light. It would be good to show some Targaryen faces to their High Priestess, their mother had decided, and Jaehaerys had jumped at the opportunity. Finally, they'd board ships to the Bay of Dragons; a place he'd always wanted to see. The queen had granted Meereen its independence more than a decade ago, but they'd still be very welcome in the former slave cities, and he couldn't wait to finally visit the region his mother had transformed so completely. And then, there was also something of even greater interest in between Volantis and Meereen.

 

They slowly descended over Sunspear, aiming for the large clearing that had been created in front of the shadow city's gates in order to accommodate six grown dragons. Their father was already here, having travelled down by ship with Prince Anders, some of the Queensguard, and all the staff they needed in order to prepare their arrival. They could've done the same, of course, but their mother liked to say that the realm needed regular reminders of their dragons, and it meant that she hadn't had to stay away from the capital for too long.

When their father knelt before their mother, Jaehaerys thought for the millionth time just how strange it would be to one day see his siblings do the same for him. Then again, his relationship to them was very different from that between his parents.

The night before his wedding to Rhaenys, he'd spoken to his mother on one of the balconies of the Red Keep. It had been a lovely summer evening and they'd had some Arbor Gold while watching the dragons circle over the city when he'd finally asked: “How is it that you never executed Father?”

She'd laughed at that, sipping on her cup. “At first, I wanted to. Then, when I was in Valyria, the gods told me I needed him to have children.” She'd nodded towards him. “And was it not good that I listened? He has given me the five of you.”

“I am not complaining I exist”, he'd said, “but it must have been so _hard_ , Mother. Whenever I think back on all you have been through, I find it so difficult to comprehend that you had it in you to keep him alive. Even though he is the blood of the dragon.”

“Well”, she'd replied, tone dry, “right after I had found him beyond the Wall, he was in such a bad state that keeping him alive was actually worse than killing him. He begged me for death, you know.” She'd shrugged. “And then we had you, and then the others, and I did not want to deprive my children of their father. You surely do not want him dead.”

“Of course I do not.” Even though they weren't as close as him and his mother, Jaehaerys still loved his father, most of the time. He was the man who'd first put a sword in his hand, who'd taught him to ride a horse before his mother would inevitably appear and show him the Dothraki way instead, who would sit them all down in the godswood and tell them northern stories, who had taken them up to Winterfell and the Wall a few times.

He was also excellent at being the most deferential of consorts, like now. Jaehaerys somewhat doubted that Rhaenys would be quite as subservient once he was king.

Their mother's myriad of titles was announced, some of which he'd one day inherit. For now, he was the Prince of Dragonstone, though he'd like to add some great deeds of his own.

Between Volantis and Meereen, Jaehaerys and Rhaenys would take their dragons and fly to Valyria, he'd decided. Their mother had not mentioned the possibility to him, though he'd heard of her own experience there, and could only imagine that she suspected he had such intentions.

It would be dangerous, yes, but his dreams couldn't be without reason. The dreams where Missandor and Ērinnon soared between enormous black towers under a red sky, where he read ancient scrolls speaking of magic cast through fire and blood, where him and Rhaenys made love on a glowing altar made of dragonglass.

Either he was right, or he was going mad. And as his mother liked to point out, Targaryen madness was historically more of an exception than a rule.

 

The next day, in the sept, Visenya looked just as beautiful as Rhaenys had at their wedding. Out of the siblings, only she and Daemon had their father's black hair, though Naerys' was somewhere in between; like polished iron. Now, Visenya's dark locks were tied into the intricate braids their mother had always favoured, a flowing red gown trailing behind her as their father led her to the altar.

Jaehaerys knew that she didn't mind marrying Prince Daron. He was six years older than her, tall like his father Lord Ryon, and someone they'd all known their entire lives. He also had a little bit of Targaryen blood in him, as his family had oft intermarried with the Martells of old. It was still sad to see her go, and if it hadn't been for their mother's old accord with Prince Anders, Jaehaerys would've preferred to see her wed someone more Valyrian. Vaena Velaryon's son, perhaps.

“Tell Daemon to stop staring at Lady Dyanna”, Rhaenys whispered to him, and he nudged his brother. The girl was, admittedly, a sight to be stared at. She stood between her Dayne father and her mother, Gwyneth Yronwood – who, as on every single other occasion he'd seen her, was at the side of Yara Greyjoy. As always, she'd left her husband at home; a man going by the slightly ridiculous name of Tristifer Botley. Jaehaerys couldn't wait to find them at the feast and hear more of Princess Yara's travelling stories.

His own wedding had been a larger affair, he thought as he watched the sept while Visenya said her vows. Not that this wasn't grand, but his had been the largest event the Seven Kingdoms had seen in a long time, as could be expected. All the Wardens and Lords Paramount had attended with their families, and so he'd seen his distant cousin Eddard Stark once more, and the Arryns and Tullys and Lannisters and Caswells and Baratheons – all Houses their parents had quite a lot of complicated history with, while Jaehaerys and his siblings only knew them as vassals, and occasionally friends. Minisa Tully had been Rhaenys' lady in waiting for some time and Jeyne Arryn had been Visenya's, while Orys Baratheon had served as the king consort's squire alongside Jaehaerys before they'd both earned their knighthoods fighting a small uprising of minor western lords against Lucion Lannister.

This, however, was a much more Dornish affair than his wedding, and Jaehaerys was hoping for a thoroughly Dornish feast.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love”, Daron Yronwood said, and he joined in with the cheers breaking out across the sept.

“And it is done”, Rhaenys said in his ear, repeating what she'd told him at their own wedding. “Three of us are married. We are adults now, brother.”

He gently squeezed her hand. “That does not have to be a bad thing, my love. We can go on our journey now, see the old empire of our ancestors, and then rule on Dragonstone and assure the most important thing of all.”

“I know”, she sighed, turning back to watch Daron and Visenya, a certain melancholy still on her face. “The future of our House.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty bold of someone called Jaehaerys to find anyone else's name ridiculous.
> 
> The Targ kids' dragons' names are Valyrian words. “Vēzendio” means sunset (at least according to that one translator I used), “perzys” means fire or flame, and “embar” means sea. Vēzendio hatched from one of the eggs they found at Winterfell, the other two are from Dragonstone.
> 
> And, yeah, this is it. Anything could happen from now on – maybe Jaehaerys and Rhaenys rediscover ancient Valyrian magic and use it plus the six dragons to build an enormous empire. Maybe they just have a fun honeymoon. Maybe Arya is still alive and murders them for revenge. Maybe they die when they go to Valyria, Visenya drowns in the Water Gardens, and Naerys and Daemon fall off their dragons or something, idk. 
> 
> I have [a new story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748338/chapters/49298093) up. It's very different from this one, so if you enjoyed this it doesn't necessarily mean that you'll like the other, but obviously I'd be happy if anyone had a look. It's an AU centred around Rhaegar, Elia, Lyanna, and magic.


End file.
